


Saintly Intervention

by YumYumPM



Series: Saintly Intervention [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Persuaders, The Protectors - Fandom, The Saint (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e11 The Gurnius Affair, M/M, reference to - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover with The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (tie in with the Gurnius Affair) and Three English Series - The Saint (Starring Roger Moore) with bits from The Persuaders (also starring Roger Moore and Tony Curtis) and The Protectors(starring Robert Vaughn)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saintly Intervention

Meet Simon Templar

Somewhere in the deep, dark, wooded area of the English countryside, Napoleon Solo was frantic. His dark hair unkempt, his suit rumpled, he ran his hand across his unshaven face. The plan was for Illya and him to have met up ages ago. He’d been searching the rather large area, for something he'd lost, something quite precious to him. His partner. It wasn’t the first time the two had become separated in the past, but lately - it was as if the fates were doing their best to deal the Russian a dirty hand. He pulled out his communicator to try again to contact Illya. “Open Channel D. Come in, Illya,” his voice low with urgency, when nothing but static came over he switched channels. “Channel L. Come on, Illya, answer me.”

“Lose something?’ A deep, melodious English accented voice queried from one side of the heavily wooded area. Napoleon swirled toward the sound, his gun drawn, and spotted a tall figure just inside the tree line with his hands positioned non-threateningly in his pants pockets. The moonlight played on a handsome face, topped with thick dark hair.

The man stepped aside, revealing a blond-haired body lying on the ground. Napoleon's breath caught in his throat, then he hurried over to kneel beside his partner and relief flooded him. 

“If he were mine, I’d take better care of him.” The stranger's voice was taunting.

If he were mine, thought Napoleon, he’d have never been out of my sight. Carefully Napoleon checked out his partner relieved to find that Illya was merely unconscious. Only after that was done did he look up, realizing he’d let his guard down, and that his gun hung loosely at his side. Slowly he got up and raised his gun, once more pointing it at the stranger. He had many questions to ask this man.

“By the way – my name is Templar…Simon Templar.” The dark-haired stranger introduced himself. “Some people call me the Saint.” Angelic blue eyes glanced upward, as if to glimpse at a halo that Napoleon's imagination pictured hanging over his head. He'd heard the name, the man having a notorious reputation in England. 

“Napoleon Solo…with the U.N.C.L.E.” 

“I take it he belongs to you?” Templar asked, gesturing with his head toward the recumbent body.

Napoleon smiled, amused at the thought of Illya being owned by anyone. “No. We just work together.”

“Pity.” The blue eyes in the tan face showed sympathy. His head tilted to one side as if listening and at the sound of footsteps approaching the Saint suggested, “I think that now would be a good time to vacate the vicinity.” 

With that, Templar bent down and effortlessly picked up the slight body. Without a backward glance, he started walking away at a fast clip. Napoleon paused, pocketed his gun and followed.

The man obviously knew his way around the wooded area and they soon came to a small English sports car that was well hidden away. Templar gently placed his burden in the back seat before getting behind the wheel on the right side, then motioning for Napoleon to get in as well.

 

Napoleon noticed that Templar expertly guided the car speedily down winding country lanes making it doubtful that anyone could keep up if they were followed. He held onto the dash as Templar, braking suddenly, swerved onto a side road before coming to a stop in front of a small typically English cottage.

Letting out the breath that Napoleon hadn't realized he'd been holding, he watched as Templar walked to the door of the cottage and pushed it open. This time it was Napoleon who bent down, picked up his Russian partner, and followed the man into the house. Following Templar, he crossed into a room and gently lowered Illya on the bed. Sitting down next to his partner, Napoleon looked down on the unconscious face and tenderly pushed a strand of blond hair away.

“Does he know?” quizzed Templar gently as he brought over two glasses of sherry.

Napoleon thought momentarily of pretending that he didn't understand. That Illya didn't mean as much to him as he did.

“No,” Solo said quietly. Then he looked up at the strong face of his host. “Have you ever had a partner?” 

Templar shook his head. He’d worked with other people in the past, but had never had a real partnership. At least not a partnership that he suspected these two shared.

“Then you wouldn’t understand,” Napoleon, continued softly, his gaze returning to his partner.

Illya Kuryakin shifted as he became conscious. He opened his eyes to find two tanned faces looking down at him. Damn, I must have been hit harder than I thought, he thought when he noticed that one face held familiar dark brown eyes, while the other's held eyes that were a startling blue. 

“Know what?” he asked, trying to sit up.

Solo looked back at Templar, his eyes pleading for him to not give him away, even as he reached for one of the glasses.

“Nothing, old man,” Templar answered and left the room to pour an additional glass for his now conscious guest. 

“What happened? Did you manage to get it?” Solo asked as he helped the Russian sit up.

“I was this close.” Illya griped as he brought two fingers close together. Then he winced as he felt the lump on the back of his head. “Then someone or something hit me. I don’t know who or what."

“I must apologize,” Templar spoke up as he handed Kuryakin a glass. “I’m afraid that was me.”

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents exchanged looks before turning accusing gazes at the other man.

“Just who are you?” Illya asked snappishly.

Templar cocked an eyebrow at Solo.

“Simon Templar…Illya Kuryakin.” Solo made the introductions.

“You hit me? Why?” Illya asked crossly.

“Let us just say, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, shall we?” Templar answered cautiously. Then in his turn inquired, “Would it be rude of me to ask why you were there?”

Napoleon and Illya exchanged discerning looks. For some unknown reason Napoleon felt that they could trust Templar and he silently asked Illya’s permission to do so. When Illya nodded his acceptance, only then did Napoleon outlined their mission for Templar.

“Ah,” Templar said, then without saying anything further, he left the room.

Illya gripped Napoleon’s arm. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

"I think we can within reason. You do know who he is. Simon Templar, the Robin Hood of crime?" 

"The one they call the Saint?"

Napoleon nodded. "Simon Templar. S.T. The Saint. Get it."

Illya groaned.

Just then, Templar came back into the room carrying a black bag. Setting it on the bed, he dumped the contents, revealing a large amount of jewelry and a bundle of papers. Handing the papers over to the two agents, he said, “This may be what you were looking for.”

Solo glanced through the papers and then handed them over to his partner. The Russian went through them, nodding confirmation.

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Templar said with relief. Sweeping the jewelry back inside, he closed the case then went again to the door and with a tilt of his head motioned for Solo to join him.

Solo glanced at his partner, not wanting to leave him until he was sure that he was okay but curious as to what the Saint wanted. He went over to join Templar.

“Take my advice,” Templar said in a low tone, making sure Kuryakin could not hear. “Tell him. This place is on loan, but you are more than welcome to make use of it.” His brow canted upward and the innuendo of which was not lost on Solo. Giving a parting nod to Kuryakin and a salute for Solo, Templar made good his escape.

Solo stood there for a while, listening to the car as it drove away. Should he take the chance?

“He reminds me of someone,” Illya said as he came to stand behind his partner.

“Who?” Solo asked absently.

“You. - What was that all about?” Illya asked.

Napoleon, eyed his partner. The Saint's suggestion ringing in his ear. He took a deep breath, and then cleared his throat. “Well, Illya…it’s like this….”

Illya stepped closer his eyes worried. “What is it, Napoleon?”

Napoleon’s breath caught, Illya was too close. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Illya asked, his eyes showing concern. Suddenly he swayed on his feet. 

Napoleon reached out to help balance him. “Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

“Just a little dizzy,” Illya said, shaking his head.

Napoleon steadied his partner, helping him over to the bed. Carefully he helped ease the Russian down and found himself following, most of his weight landing on top of the Russian.

“Oh dear, how clumsy of me,” Illya alleged innocently. 

Napoleon looked down into blue eyes, with the wicked glint, that clearly danced with amusement. Illya was many things but clumsy was not one of them. Could he possibly…? “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Wrapping his arms around Napoleon, Illya said, “I’ve gotten tired of waiting for you to make the first move.”

“You’ve been waiting for me?” Napoleon pulled back, a frown on his handsome face. “Just how long?”

He didn’t get a response in so many words. Illya grabbed a wad of thick dark hair and pulled Napoleon’s face down, hungrily going for the warm mouth. No gentleness there – pure lust motivated his kiss. Napoleon considered objecting for all of a nanosecond, and then he decided to join in. This was a once in a lifetime moment and he wasn't about to waste it. Not to mention they were stranded here. After all, without a car, they had no way to leave. They could call for help of course, but how long would it take to get there…provided they called? Napoleon decided that he had better things to do with his time. But first...

Illya sat up suddenly once he felt Napoleon pull away. Had he read the signs wrong? He watched as the dark-haired agent made his way to the door. Chewing his bottom lip, Illya was afraid that his partner was about to leave. Relief hit him as he heard the distinct click of the lock setting in place. Relaxing back onto his elbows, the Russian agent observed his partner go to each window in turn and slowly pull down the shades, indicating something illicit was about to happen. Something that would need to be hidden from prying eyes. 

Illya gulped as Napoleon, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light of the room, slowly made his way back towards him. His eyes were drawn to Napoleon’s sure fingers as they untied the silk tie around his neck, letting it slide carelessly to the floor as at the same time one hand undid the buttons of his shirt. 

Not willing to be left behind, Illya hurriedly shed his clothing as well as his inhibitions, before sliding backwards onto the bed, his heart racing as he watched his partner’s continued approach. He was unsure of what to expect from this particular man, who had bedded hundreds of woman. Would he be able to satisfy him? 

Solo stood at the foot of the bed looking down on the Russian, his eyes burning with desire. His eyes devoured the man lying on the bed, the muscular legs, the intensely desirable erection, the taut stomach, the rosy nipples just waiting to be suckled. He longed to run his hands down that sleek body, his mouth exploring every spot realizing it was something he’d been longing to do for some time.

Napoleon slid onto the bed next to his partner, one hand capturing the back of the blond head, bringing their mouths together. His other hand was sliding down his partner’s side, gently caressing each and every inch. Napoleon pulled back from the kiss as his hand slid along the back of Illya’s thigh toward his knee. 

The Russian’s body arched and he growled. “Napoleon!”

“What? What is it you want?” Napoleon asked softly as his mouth trailed down the slender throat, across the chest to one nipple, his tongue laving it, before covering it with his mouth - sucking.

“Anything….everything,” the blond moaned in frustration, his cock so hard it hurt.

Taking pity on his partner, Napoleon rolled onto his back and pulled Illya atop him, aligning their swollen cocks. With his hands on Illya’s hips, Napoleon began a gentle thrusting, setting the pace to a slow and gentle rhythm as he lapped and sucked just behind the Russian’s ear. 

Illya’s body was burning in flames created by Napoleon’s unhurried and tender claiming. This one man had breached his defenses like none before him, so the gentleness was pure torture to the Russian. Boldly, Illya picked up the pace, his thrusts harder, more urgent. Secretly smiling at the moans the American was unable to hold back, Illya lifted his torso up just enough to capture Napoleon’s lips, ravishing his partner’s mouth as their bodies thrust against each other more forcefully.

Napoleon’s body arched as he reached orgasm, sending creamy white liquid spurting between their tightly joined bodies. Seconds later the Russian shuddered as his own waves of ecstasy crashed through him. Too exhausted to move, even had they wanted to, the two naked bodies laid intertwined, holding each other close. Their labored breathing leveled out, all else fading as they finally fell asleep.

 

Gold Napoleons

Napoleon sat in his chair, a pencil tapping his lips. Illya stood over to one side, studying a gold coin with a jeweler’s lens. 

Alexander Waverly was saying, “These coins are showing up at various points around the globe.”

“And we are interested in this because…?” Napoleon asked.

Illya came over and tossed the coin to Napoleon. Leaning close, one hand on the back of Solo’s chair, the other on the round table, his face just inches from his partner. “Are you ready for this…they are gold Napoleons…very rare…very valuable. And they are counterfeit.”

Amused at finding a coin that was might have been named for the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, his namesake, Napoleon looked at the coin with new respect. "I realize that as a former French coin, if these were real they'd be worth something. But these are counterfeit? So just how valuable are we talking here?" 

"The coin itself is not worth much, the gold however..." Illya stated as he took back the coin.

“Very interesting.”

Illya had straightened up. “Isn’t it? And guess who else is interested?”

Napoleon looked up. “THRUSH?”

Illya waved it aside. “Yes…but also someone else.” He flicked a remote and a picture popped up on the screen behind Waverly. A devilish smile in tanned handsome face, with dark hair, and blue, blue eyes stared back at them.

“Simon Templar,” Solo murmured, a huge grin spreading across his face. “It would be interesting…if we could locate him.”

Illya picked up a folder on the far side of the table, moved next to Napoleon’s chair to lean back against the round conference table, his arms crossed over his chest and with his ankles crossed. “You might try a small cottage at the edge of some dark woods outside of Devonshire.” He looked down into Solo’s smiling face and the two men’s eyes locked meaningfully.

“He said he didn’t own it,” Napoleon murmured, his eyes on his partner as he absentmindedly ran the back of his hand down Illya’s arm.

“He lied,” Illya stated firmly as he handed the folder to Napoleon.

Napoleon took the folder, flipping through the sheets, his eyebrows raised. He brought a knowing look back up to Illya.

Waverly observed his two top agents. Something was different about the two men, nothing he could put a finger on. But it was there. Not that their behavior was any different from usual. He frowned; it was almost as if they had forgotten that they were not alone in the room. Time to remind them otherwise.

Waverly cleared his throat. “Templar…isn’t he the chap you reported meeting in …” he pulled a folder from the pile on his desk and opened it. “in England?”

Illya broke the connecting gaze with Napoleon. Turning the upper part of his body to face his superior, he laid both hands on the desk for balance. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you foresee any problems gaining his cooperation?”

Napoleon glanced up at Illya, who sent his gaze to the ceiling before bringing his eyes back to his partner’s face. The two agents again exchanged meaningful looks and smiled.

“No sir, I don’t see any problems in that regard,” Solo said smoothly. “When do we leave?”

“The sooner the better, I should think, gentlemen,” Waverly ordered. He watched as they got up to leave. Solo, two steps in front of his partner, as was his habit. Preposterous, Waverly thought, it must have been his imagination. He had better things to do with his time then to speculate on something so insignificant, he said to himself, before going back to the pile of folders on his desk.

 

Napoleon Solo entered his apartment, he tossed his keys on a nearby table, leaving his partner to lock and reset the alarm. Tossing his jacket on a chair and loosening his tie, he made his way toward the kitchen. “Explain to me again why you feel Templar is involved.”

“Think about it, Napoleon. Templar and gold…it’s a match made in heaven for him. Not to mention Templar was in the vicinity whenever a counterfeit coin managed to show.” Illya’s voice floated from the living room.

Rummaging through the refrigerator, Napoleon called out, “What are you hungry for?”

“You.” Illya’s voice was directly behind him, his lips teasing the back of Napoleon's neck and he could see bare arms as Illya reached around to undo the buttons on his shirt. Leaning back into the body plastered to him, Napoleon glanced back, noting Illya’s arms were not the only thing bare. Except for the white briefs, Illya was wearing nothing at all. 

Lips that were tasting, taunting him, while hands roamed over his chest. Napoleon found that he was having a very hard time concentrating. “You’re much too good at this,” Napoleon moaned. “Would it be possible for us to take this someplace more comfortable?”

Illya grinned into his partner’s neck. “I’m good at a lot of things.” He looked up at the open cabinet over the counter and spied a bottle of olive oil. “Kitchens contain enormous possibilities,” he whispered devilishly in his partner’s ear, one hand massaging the bulge in Napoleon’s trousers, while the other reached up for the bottle.

“But it’s so unsanitary,” Solo complained as he pushed his groin more fully into the hand stroking it. “Ah, exactly what do you intend to do with that?” he asked as Illya brought down the bottle.

Illya’s hand froze in midair for just an instant. Was it possible? Setting the bottle on the counter, he placed his hand to Napoleon’s chin, turning the his face toward him so he could look directly into the warm dark eyes. “Napoleon?” he asked, his tone casual. “Have you ever had sex…" the question was on the face of it rediculous until Illya qualified it. "with a man before?” 

Napoleon’s eyes were glazed, the hands and mouth of his partner igniting him in a way no woman ever had. “Define your idea of sex.”

Illya let go of Napoleon’s chin and pressed his forehead against Napoleon’s back. With a sigh, he reached for the olive oil, intent on returning it to the shelf.

Napoleon’s hand stayed the movement. “Have you?”

Illya contemplated just how much he should tell. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It can be…most enjoyable.”

“Show me,” Napoleon’s voice was husky with desire.

Illya hesitated. “Napoleon?”

“Didn’t you once tell Mimi that inexperience did not mean inability?” Napoleon’s voice sounding vague as if in a dream like state. 

“Yes, but…”

“Do it,” Napoleon was using his command tone. The one that brooked no argument.

“The first time can be…a little painful.” Illya informed him gently.

Napoleon laughed, much to his surprise. “As many times as we’ve been tortured by THRUSH and others, what’s a little pain?”

One of Illya’s hands were rubbing the nub of one of Napoleon’s nipples, his fingers bringing it to a hardness that sent a shot of desire directly to the American agent’s groin. His other hand was busy undoing Napoleon’s slacks. Napoleon groaned softly, another sensation making itself known as Illya quickly unhooked his belt and opened his pants.

Letting the slacks and briefs slip down Napoleon's legs, the Russian also slid down his partner’s body, kissing the white mounds of Solo’s ass, as he helped Napoleon remove one leg from his pants. Slowly Illya made his way back up, encouraging Napoleon to place his hands on the countertop for balance. Satisfied he had his partner exactly where he wanted him, Illya reached for the bottle of olive oil. Coating the fingers of one hand with oil, he carefully slid them into the crevice of his partner’s ass, searching for the puckered hole as he nuzzled the back of Napoleon’s neck. Sensually he teased the virgin opening as he spread the thick oil over the tight flesh, making sure the area was slicked up enough for easy access. Slowly he penetratrated the tight portal with one finger, only stopping when he heard a gasp from his lover. The Russian gently caressed Napoleon’s side as he murmured reassurances in the other’s ear, waiting until he received some sign of approval from his partner to continue. He didn’t have to wait long. Napoleon started to rock against the finger and slowly it began to sink further into his body.

Soon the one digit was joined by others, as they coated the inside of the passage, massaging and gently stretching the tight ring. As one finger tapped the chestnut sized gland, Napoleon let out a strangled cry. When the talented fingers withdrew the cry changed to a moan of despair.

"You like," Illya purred.

The most Napoleon could do was nod.

With regret, Illya removed his fingers from the warm, tight home they had found. His cock jumped in anticipation of exploring the virgin tunnel of his lover. Knowing he would have to take it slowly, his body trembling with need, he stepped back to remove his briefs, freeing his own leaking erection. Kicking the briefs away from him, the Russian spooned against his partner’s body as he lined up his hard shaft against his new found lover’s waiting hole. Illya reached around to place his hands on Napoleon’s flat abdomen as he gently pulled his partner onto his cock, slowly impaling him in a leisurely thrust.

Napoleon hissed as the head of Illya’s cock pushed past the anal ring. He pressed in further, letting his shaft glide over the little bump that had given Napoleon a jolt of pleasure. Illya paused , allowing his partner to get use to the feeling of being filled. Placing short kisses along the back of Napoleon’s neck, he whispered words of how incredible it felt being inside him. Only when Napoleon started to rock back against him did the Russian start to move. Slowly, at first, but gaining in speed and depth as the moans and cries from Napoleon encouraged him.

That Napoleon was in heaven, was obvious. In fact he was quite vocal about it every time Illya sent his cock brushing against his prostate. In fact he was actually babbling. 

“Do that…again,” Napoleon gasped, enjoying the feeling of the hard cock sliding in and out of him. The sensations his blond partner was giving him were unlike anything he had ever experienced before in his many affairs. There was something so erotic about the Russian being dominating, feeling Illya’s sacs hitting his ass. His own cock was painfully hard. He wanted to do something about it, to reach out and take matters into his own hands, but was afraid to remove them from the counter. "Deeper…harder…please!”

Illya’s hands tightened painfully on Napoleon’s hips as he plunged in and out. The blond could hear the clock in the kitchen helping him set a slow, sensual rhythm for his thrusts. The tight tunnel surrounding his swollen shaft felt wonderful as it massaged and caressed his length. His mind short circuited. That Napoleon would allow this was disconcerting. The depth of Napoleon’s caring shocked him, even more than the depth of his own caring. Before he knew it  
Illya, felt his sacs tighten, signaling his climax. He pulled Napoleon tight against him, thrusting one last time as he held his partner tightly in his arms. His sperm erupted into the once virgin cavity, claiming it as his own.

Napoleon felt a gush of liquid fill his insides. The final thrust caused his legs to collapse and with the additional weight of his partner draped across his back, he slid onto the floor with Illya still deeply embedded inside him. He could hear the Russian’s hard breaths in his ear as the other man lay against him, holding him tight. His mind and body was numb. He'd just let a man fuck him, and not just any man, but the one he found himself caring for on a personal level. This had proven to be the most intense experience of Solo’s life. Odd, considering all his sexual experience. Then Illya pulled out and the sting brought tears to his eyes. 

“Napoleon?”

“What?” he snapped, his mind befuddled, wiping away any wetness.

“Have you got a paper towel?”

Napoleon looked questioningly back at his lover. The lover he'd never thought he would have.

“I think there is going to be blood,” Illya said apologetically.

Napoleon lay on the floor laughing softly. “ I thought it was something serious,” he said dryly as he reached into a drawer and withdrew a linen napkin.

Illya used the clean napkin to gently wipe the mixture of semen along with a trace of blood from the loosened pucker. He had not meant to be so rough and thoroughly examined the bruised area, pleased to see that the damage was light, no heavy bleeding or tearing, just a slight pink stain and a little swolleness. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet and reached down to help pull Napoleon up.

Napoleon gingerly turned over pulling off his shoes and socks, before kicking off his slacks. Getting up slowly, he winced slightly from the soreness where there had never been any before. His penis was still rock hard and leaking as he told his partner, “If you need me, I’ll be in the living room.” He carefully made his way to the sofa. 

Plopping his body down, Napoleon, a lock of his hair falling in his face, closed his eyes while he gingerly fondled his balls, before moving his hand to take his erection in hand to pump his swollen cock. He glared at his cock, his frustration at his inability to find completion apparent by the look on his face. 

Illya, dressed once again in briefs, entered the living room, taking a bite of the sandwich he had prepared to keep his growling stomach at bay, when he noticed the aroused state his partner was still in. He raised an eyebrow as he took in his partner's flushed face and the fact that he was sprawled on the leather sofa wearing nothing but his opened white shirt and in obvious need of assistance. To his embarrassment, Illya realized that in his overwelming desire to achieve sexual satisfaction, he had neglected Napoleon’s own need for release.

Setting aside his sandwich, he went to the American and pulled him up into a sitting position. With a wicked look in his eye, Illya spread the American’s legs before kneeling between them, reaching his hand to touch the aching cock. The other hand he used to work the sacs that hung full beneath the upright staff.

Napoleon had been a little surprised when Illya had pulled him into a sitting position, but he didn’t question it. As his legs were spread and his balls fondled he watched in fascination as the Russian first gripped his penis before lowering his blond head to nuzzle the base of his shaft. The blue eyes caught his, as Illya’s pink tongue came out and slowly licked its way up to the reddened head before the hot wet mouth engulfed it. It wasn’t long before the talented mouth had him arching off the leather sofa, spurting his load into the waiting mouth.

Illya licked his lips as the limp cock left them, then turned around, his bare body leaning back against his partner, relaxing between Napoleon’s outstreched legs. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Napoleon reclined against the back of the sofa, his body limp and most definately sated, and replied, “Ah huh.”

“This was your first time?” Illya asked hesitantly.

“To be taken?” Napoleon paused. “Yes. But not the last I hope.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Illya was still unconvinced.

“Yeah, you just took me by surprise, that’s all,” Napoleon said quietly. “Tell me. How often should I expect to be jumped?”

“I didn’t jump you,” Illya replied indignantly.

“Oh? Then what would you call it?” Napoleon queried as he leaned forward, his arms resting on his legs. “I just wanted to know when I should expect it, that’s all,” he whispered in Illya's ear.

Illya considered the question and decided he didn’t have a good answer. He had jumped his partner, so to speak. “I suppose we shouldn’t …?” and hearing the sound of disappointment in his own voice.

“I didn’t say that,” Napoleon said softly, leaning closer over his partner.

Illya tilted his head back, looking up at him. “Just what did you say?”

Napoleon decided to answer that by bringing his mouth down to capture Illya’s. With a sigh of contentment, Illya closed his eyes and brought his arm up around Solo’s neck, holding him in place, returning the kiss.

 

Recruiting the Saint

The two agents entered the quaint English cottage without knocking. The lights were low and Templar, looking devastatingly elegant in a blue smoking jacket, was engaged in entertaining a stunning blonde. He looked up from his labors without surprise and his melodious deep voice said. “Well, gentlemen. It’s a pleasure to see you again. What, may I ask, brings you to my humble abode?”

Solo said two words. “Gold Napoleons.”

Templar froze for just an instant before turning to his blonde. “Darling,” he said as he got up from the sofa, pulling her along. “Why don’t you go on back to the village? We’ll pick up where we left off at a later time, shall we?”

The blonde, a disappointed pout on her pretty face, got up from the sofa and walked seductively to the door of the cottage with Templar close behind. She sent a searching gaze to the two agents before giving Templar a sizzling kiss, a reminder of what he would be missing, before leaving.

Templar turned back into the room. “My accountant,” he said, by way of apology. 

Illya turned away as he snickered.

Simon looked closely at the two men. He addressed Napoleon. “I see you took my advice.” 

The two agents exchanged looks and Napoleon responded, “Ah, no.”

Templar turned his gaze to Illya and his eyebrows went up questioningly. Illya looked back calmly, a smug smile on his face, and shrugged.

Templar ventured, “You mentioned gold Napoleons. Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Don’t play innocent. We’re on to you, you know,” Illya told him bluntly.

Templar sat down, crossing his legs casually. “About what?”

Solo sighed. “Look here, Templar, exactly what is your interest in the coins?”

Templar contemplated the question before motioning for the two men to sit down. “A very good friend of mine somehow managed to get involved with the people counterfeiting the coins, whoever they are. Now he’s dead.”

The two agents had taken seats in comfortable high backed chairs placed to either side of the fireplace. Napoleon turned an understanding gaze on Templar. “I’m sorry. Would you be willing to work with us to bring his killer to justice?”

Templar looked down into his drink. The death of his friend had hit him hard. Looking up into Solo’s eyes, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

Illya leaned forward in his chair. “Our plan is to locate the real coins. The men we are after won’t be able to resist trying to…acquire them.”

“Do you have any idea as to where they are?” Templar asked. 

“Not at the moment,” Solo responded.

Illya pulled a photo from an envelope that he removed from his jacket, setting it on the coffee table. “This is Colonel Maximilion Nexor. We think he was in charge of the troops that looted the original coins.”

"You can't tell much from this photo." Templar squinted as he examined the picture. 

"Unfortunately, his face was never photographed. This is all we have. His age at the time was listed as fifty-five."

“In that case that would make him…quite old.”

“If he were alive,” Solo said dryly.

“So he’s dead,” Templar declared.

“As is his son,” Kuryakin said as he pulled out another photo, laying it too on the table, turned so Templar could view it. “However, no one knows about that.”

Templar picked it up, his eyebrows raised. “An amazing likeness,” he said as he compared the photo to the blond Russian. He couldn’t help but notice how attractive the young blond was and it made up for his losing his other blonde's company for the evening.

“Isn’t it?” Napoleon answered. “Illya will be our man on the inside.”

Placing the photo back on the table, Templar rose from the sofa and walked over to the fireplace. Picking up an antique cigarette case off the mantel, he offered cigarettes all around before removing one and lighting it. Leaning over the back of the chair Illya was sitting in, he directed his question to Solo. “You’re quite sure they’ll let him in.”

“Positive. Nexor was in charge of ransacking the original coins. He had knowledge the people we are after need.” Solo pointed out.

“Knowledge he in all probability passed on to his son – me,” Illya stated as he leaned back in his chair.

“And just what is my part in all this?” Templar inquired.

“You will be Lord Bret Sinclair – playboy extraordinaire and collector of lovely things, including rare coins.”

“A Lord, how charming.” Templar nodded his approval. “And just what will you be doing?” Templar asked Solo.

“He’ll be posing as Harry Rule,” Illya said, at the same time as he felt Templar’s fingers surreptitiously brushing against the base of his neck, sending a tingle of thrill through the Russian’s body. 

Templar’s eyebrows rose. “Harry Rule?” 

Keeping his voice steady, Illya contributed, “Harry Rule is a rather high priced private-eye. He runs a group calling itself the Protectors.” 

Doing his best to control the rising desire he was experiencing, Illya sent a glance his partner’s way. It would not be good if Napoleon noticed what Templar was doing and even worse if Napoleon became aware of his partner’s response. Fortunately, Napoleon had risen from his chair and was examining a knick-knack on the far side of the room. Illya risked a glance up at Templar, who smiled down at him and ran the back of his hand along the Russian’s strong jaw. Illya pulled away, afraid that Templar would kiss him – and afraid that he would not.

Napoleon turned back just then, just missing the byplay between Templar and his partner. “Rule has agreed to take a small vacation. I, as Harry Rule, have been hired to protect Lord Sinclair.”

Templar had removed his hand just in time and crossed his arms instead. “I do not need protection.” 

“Simon Templar doesn’t,” agreed Napoleon. “but Lord Sinclair does.”

Templar considered the argument and nodded. “What happens to the real Napoleons?”

“We’re only interested in the men behind this,” Napoleon answered.

Templar went over to his bar and fixed drinks for them all. Clinking glasses with the two agents, he raised a toast. “To success.”

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents echoed his toast.

“It’s getting late. Would you two like to stay over?” Templar offered when the glasses were empty, his gaze resting on Illya.

“You mean the three of us?” Illya inquired thoughtfully. 

“Why not?” Templar smiled.

Napoleon wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but he was sure he didn’t like it. Without a thought, he stepped in front of Illya. “I think not.”

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you to share?” Templar asked.

Solo frowned as behind him Illya said lightly, “It might prove interesting.”

Napoleon turned a surprised look at his partner, catching a devilish look of amusement in the blue eyes. Growling, he turned back to Templar. “Some other time, perhaps.”

Templar took it with good grace as he showed the two lovers to the door.

 

Napoleon lay awake, tossing and turning in his bed - alone, unable to sleep. 

“Napoleon, what’s wrong,” a sleepy voice inquired from the other bed.

“Nothing,” Napoleon replied as he turned over again.

“Go to sleep,” an exasperated voice called back.

Napoleon tried, but he just couldn’t fall asleep. Then he had to ask, “You really wouldn’t mind having sex with Templar?”

“Does it matter? No, matter how I answer I’m screwed,” the answer floated across the narrow space between the two beds. “It’s really no more different then what you do with all your female companions.” This last was said more quietly.

Napoleon lay back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t like being reminded of all the women he had bedded, and he didn’t want to compare Illya to them either. “This wouldn’t bother me so much if you were a woman.”

Illya sat up in the bed, propping himself on his elbows. “Let me get this straight, it bothers you because I’m not a woman?” 

“No.” Napoleon’s voice held a little frustration in it. “It just wouldn’t matter so much if you were a woman. If you were a woman I wouldn’t give a damn.”

“Napoleon, I never realized you were so insecure.” Amusement was evident in Illya’s voice.

Napoleon turned over and punched his pillow. “Neither did I,” he muttered to himself.

“Supposing I were someone else? George Dennel, let’s say. Would my wanting sex with another man bother you then?” Illya inquired curiously.

That was a question Napoleon did not want to answer, much less think about. “I think I’ll go to sleep now.” Napoleon turned over, moving to the far side of the bed, increasing the distance from his partner, still unable to sleep. Shortly he felt the mattress sink on the other side of his bed. A warm body lay down next to his, not touching. Just knowing Illya was near was comforting.

Illya lay next to his partner. He wanted to reach out and gather him in his arms, but he didn’t. He was disturbed by his reaction to Templar’s touch. While he'd been with other men, nobody except Napoleon had ever elicited such a reaction from him. He felt guilty about that, but it wouldn’t do to let Napoleon know. He was already insufferably smug about his ability to charm people. Illya also hadn’t realized the depth of Napoleon’s feelings for him – Napoleon was always so casual about sex, he’d assumed their relations would be no different. Eventually Napoleon’s breathing evened out in sleep and turning away, Illya, too, closed his eyes, falling into a troubled sleep.

 

Napoleon woke up the next morning to an empty bed. He looked across at the other bed, only to find it empty too. Soon however, the bathroom door opened and out came his partner, his hair damp from the shower he’d taken.

“You’re awake,” Illya said. “Templar will be here shortly. You might want to clean up.”

Rubbing his face, Napoleon got out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. Evidently Templar had called while he was still sleeping. Turning on the shower, he stepped in, letting the water flow over him. He would need to be in top form if he was to remain professional today. Letting Illya go off alone was going to be one of the hardest things he had ever done.

Illya was just finishing putting the final touches to his disguise when a knock came to the door. Opening it, he was surprised to find not only Templar, but breakfast as well.

“I hope you don’t mind? I hate having a meeting on an empty stomach,” Templar said as he wheeled in the cart. Once in, he strolled around the Russian, examining him carefully. The blond agent’s hair was slightly darker, he now sported wire rimmed glasses and a scar along one cheek. “I’ve never kissed a man with a scar before,” Templar said huskily as he moved closer to the young agent.

“And you haven’t now,” Illya sniped as he easily eluded Templar’s advance.

“Why not? I want you…and I know you want me,” Templar said quietly.

Illya swallowed. There was no point in denying it. “Not here. Not now.”

Templar tilted his head to one side, his eyes thoughtful. He supposed he’d just have to accept that…for now.

Solo chose that moment to exit the bathroom. His hair was parted differently and he was fully dressed. He adjusted the cuffs on his shirt beneath the Savile Row suit and adjusted his tie, totally unaware of what he had almost interrupted.

Illya swiftly moved to his side. “Simon brought us breakfast,” he said brightly.

Napoleon glanced at his partner. Illya seemed flustered and since when did he call Templar Simon?

“How do you do, Lord Sinclair?” Napoleon said, deciding now was as good a time to get into character as any.

“Quite well, Mr. Rule,” Templar responded, taking his lead from Solo.

“Call me Harry,” Napoleon invited.

“And you can call me Lord Sinclair,” Templar responded. The tension in the room was palpable. 

“Well, I’ll be off now,” Illya said to his partner. He started toward the door, then stopped. Pulling his communicator from his pocket he handed it to Napoleon. “Here, I’d better not forget this. It wouldn't do to have it go off at the wrong time.”

Napoleon’s heart caught in his throat as he took the pen shaped communicator. He wanted to tell Illya to be careful, in spite of the fact that the man was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He also wanted to pull him into his arm and kiss him senseless. No matter how unprofessional it might be. 

Illya gazed into the American’s eyes, realizing what it was he wanted to say and could not. “I will, if you will,” he said before putting on a soft hat, and closing the door behind him.

Templar came up behind Solo. “What is that thing?” 

“This is our communicator. It’s how we stay in contact with each other,” Napoleon informed him absently.

“You mean that if he should get in trouble, he’ll have no way to call for help?” 

“I know,” Solo answered softly, his eyes still on the closed door through which his partner had vanished. Knowing Illya wouldn’t be able to communicate through regular channels was tough. Napoleon felt like cursing the fact that U.N.C.L.E. communicators were so well known. After a few moments he went to his suitcase, tossing the ball point pen shaped object inside and lowering the lid, snapping the locks shut. “Time for us to leave.”

“Just where are we going?” Templar asked.

“Rome,” Napoleon responded as he held the door open for Templar.

 

Maximilion Nexor

Kuryakin landed the single engine plane in a remote field in Austria. He’d changed into Nexor’s uniform before the flight, which had been short, not giving him time to think about the two men he had left back in England, which probably was for the best. The last time he’d donned this disguise was in South America during the assignment Waverly had dubbed the Gurnius Affair. Information supplied by Section Four had indicated that the coins were originating near Bad Ischl – Wolfgangsee in the Province of Salzburg. A tall man wearing a similar uniform greeted him.

“Maximilion Nexor?” The man's German accent thick. “I have a car waiting. Will you come with me, please?’

Kuryakin’s eyebrows went up as they approached the car, an antique Bentley, unusual in that its finish was a startling red. This car would stand out anywhere. Opening the door to the backseat, the man ushered Illya into it before getting behind the wheel. 

 

The Bentley pulled up to a palatial estate and up to a magnificent home. Kuryakin marched after the man, stopping in front of two large double doors. He soon found himself guided into a dimly lit study.

There was a man sitting behind the large ornate desk, smoking a cigar, his face thrown into the shadows. “Colonel Nexor?”

Illya walked to the desk from the far side of the room, stopped and clicked his heels. “Maximilion Nexor, at your service.”

“My name is Crow, Marshal Crow. Please take a seat. Hans, fix our friend a drink,” Crow ordered, his accent obviously American. “I suppose you are wondering what you are doing here?” 

“I would assume it had something to do with the Napoleon coins that have recently been circulating.”

“You might say that,” Crow stated. “First, tell me…what happened in San Rico? What happened to Brown?”

This was it, the man was obviously THRUSH, Illya thought as he took the drink offered. “I’m afraid you have Gurnius to thank for that. I was on my way out of the complex by his orders when it blew. Brown, I’m afraid, was already dead by then. Something to do with the world not being big enough for both of them?” Kuryakin lied.

“So Gurnius was planning a double cross?” The man behind the desk looked angrily at the lit end of his cigar.

“That I could not say,” Kuryakin responded cautiously as he took a sip of his drink.

“It’s most curious that you alone managed to escape,” Crow thought out loud. 

“You have concerns about my identity?” Illya asked bluntly, allowing his German accent to flow heavier.

“Well, you have to admit it’s only natural,” Crow said before reaching to hit a switch on the intercom. “Send her in, Hans.”

“Send who in?” Illya queried, mildly curious.

“Why, your mistress, of course,” Crow replied.

Mistress? Nexor had a mistress? That was a revelation that he hadn't been aware of. Illya turned aside to take a deep breath and pull himself together. The door opened behind him and he stood up and turned toward the door to find the most attractive redhead he’d seen in a good while. Soon he had an armful of the redhead.

“Maxie,” she said with an engaging accent as she kissed him passionately. After a moment she pulled away, her eye skeptical. Maxie wasn't responding in his usual manner. “Is something wrong, darling?”

“No. No, I was just not expecting to see you here, that’s all,” And wasn't that the truth. This little turn of affairs was a complete surprise.

“Perhaps the two of you would like a little time together before dinner?” Crow said magnimously. “Hans, show Colonel Nexor and his…friend to their room.”

Hans nodded. Following orders, he led the way up the stairs to a bedroom. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

Kuryakin stood there clenching and unclenching his fists. He was in foreign territory here, this was his partner’s domain. 

“Would you like a quickie?” The redhead asked as she pulled aside her long hair, turning her back to him so he could undo her zipper.

“We don’t have time for this,” Illya said harshly. “They’ll be calling for us in less than thirty minutes.”

She turned back to look at him. “Since when? You’ve always had time before.”

He decided on a soft approach. “To do right by you, we should take our time.”

She backed up. “Who are you? Max never cared about whether I enjoyed it or not before. It’s always been about his pleasure first.”

Illya winced. That was how he’d been with Napoleon in his apartment. Maybe he and Nexor had more in common than he thought. He decided to take a chance. “Look, Miss. What is your name?”

“Monica.”

“Monica, my name is Illya Kuryakin. I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent. I need your help. These men are up to their ears in counterfeiting and I need you to convince them that I am Nexor.”

“Why should I?” 

He moved closer to her, running his hand gently through her auburn tresses, “Because deep down, I know you are a good person,” he said quietly before kissing her.

“Whatever you say, Maxi,” she said dreamily. “Are you sure you don’t want a quickie?”

“Perhaps another time,” he said with a small smile as a knock came at the door.

Dinner that evening was uneventful, the food excellent. Monica put on a superb performance, convincing one and all, even Illya, that he was Maximilion Nexor. At the close of dinner, when everyone had adjourned to the study, Illya pulled Monica aside, speaking loudly enough to be heard by everybody. “Darling, why don’t you go back to the room and get ready for later?” he said suggestively.

He watched her appreciatively as she slowly walked up the stairs to their room. 

“Ahmmm,” Crow said from the study. “Your lover is very attractive.”

Illya nodded. “And very distracting. I think it would be best if I sent her away. At least until our business is settled.”

“Perhaps you are right, “ Crow said as he poured them each a drink. “To a successful venture.”

“To success,” Illya said with a smile, trying his best to be affable.

“I understand your father was responsible for the coins being missing in the first place,” Crow said, changing the subject.

Kuryakin said nothing.

“I thought you might like to know that we’ve already found them,” Crow continued.

Illya froze. “In that case, why am I here?”

Going over to a wall safe, Crow dialed the combination and opened it. Pulling out a case, he brought it around and raised the lid. Inside were ten pristine Gold Napoleons. Passing them across to Illya, he asked, “What do you think?” 

Illya examined each of the coins. “They appear to be genuine.”

“They are,” Crow said as he pulled a small chest from one of the desk drawers. “Now what do you think of these?”

Illya opened the chest, revealing a large quantity of Gold Napoleons. Examining them, he offered, “These appear to be counterfeit.”

“Don’t they now,” Crow said with delight. “You would be wrong, of course.”

“I would?” Illya said as he handed back the coins.

“Yes, you would.” And Crow told him why.

Later that night, as Illya lay in bed with Monica he whispered, “Tomorrow I want you to head to Rome. When you get there, locate Lord Sinclair and give him this.” He pulled one of the counterfeit coins from his pajama pocket. “Do you think you can do that?”

“But of course, darling,” Monica said as she pulled him close, bringing their lips together. “But first show me how good you can be.”

And he did. 

 

Lord Sinclair and Harry Rule

Templar let out a sigh of relief as they exited the plane at the airport in Rome. Solo had been firmly entrenched in his character of Harry Rule, acting as if Templar were unable to take care of himself. Take now, for instance. Solo was walking two paces in front of him, his eyes searching in every direction as if expecting an attack at any moment.

As the two men entered the air-conditioned air terminal, a very attractive woman, wearing a fur hat, came forward and kissed Solo on both cheeks. “Harry, welcome to Roma.”

Templar turned an inquisitive look toward Solo, who showed no surprise at the greeting. “Harry, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

The woman turned to Templar. “Lord Sinclair, I am Contessa Di Contini, an associate of Mr. Rule’s,” she said, extending her hand. Her face held a hint of amusement as Templar bent over her hand, bestowing a kiss on it. Taking back her hand, she gestured toward the doors leading outside. “Will you come this way?”

The two men followed her to the chauffeured Rolls Royce waiting at the curb. Having settled herself between the two men, the Contessa pulled out her cigarette holder. She leaned forward, contemplating the man posing as Harry Rule, letting him light her thin cigar with the lighter he had pulled from his pocket.

“How much have you been told?” Solo asked.

“Not much,” she admitted, her contemplation complete. The man bore a faint resemblance to Harry, the voice was similar. Both men sitting on either side of her exuded an animal magnetism that almost made her regret that this was work. “Outside of Rome there is a small private casino owned by an expatriate American. You might find the information you seek there,” she said. 

Solo and Templar got out of the Rolls after they had pulled up to the hotel. The Contessa had scooted over and roll down a back window and now leaned out and handed Solo a paper containing the name and address of the casino. 

 

The sound level in the room lowered noticeably as the attention by most of the female patrons shifted from their gambling to the two incrediably delectable men who paused just inside the entrance of the privately owned casino. 

Solo, in the persona of Harry Rule, looking positively dashing in his black vested tuxedo with a white ruffled shirt, reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a cigar lighting it while Templar as Lord Sinclair, a well tailored white dinner jacket covering his physique played with the chips he'd just acquired and smiled for their many female admirers. The two men exchanged brief glances before Sinclair strolled to the right toward the roulette wheel, and Rule to the left for the baccarat table.

Rule stopped at a table, sitting where he could keep an eye on Sinclair. Placing a bet, he couldn’t help smiling as he noted Sinclair, two women already at his side, taking up a spot at the roulette table. Rule, puffing on his cigar, flipped his card over - a winner. 

Sinclair wasn’t having as much luck. The wheel always seemed against him. The two beautiful girls fawning over him were very sympathetic, but it wasn't helping. He was just getting ready to chuck the whole business when a beautiful redhead showed up at his side.

Without so much as looking at Sinclair, the redhead spoke softly as she placed her bet. “Lord Sinclair?”

Sinclair looked at her as he placed some chips on the board. “Who wants to know?”

The wheel spun, and the redhead won. As she took her winnings she turned to him, moving close. “I was led to understand that you are interested in certain coins.” she murmured.

Sinclair paused, fiddling with his remaining chips. “And if I am?”

“Not here,” the redhead replied, her green eyes roaming suspiciously around the room. “Meet me outside in the garden in ten minutes.” 

Sinclair glanced briefly to where Rule was sitting. Their gazes caught and Harry returned a short nod. Ten minutes later Sinclair checked his watch, then he threw down his last chip, which he lost and with a shrug of disappointment left the table for his clandestine meeting, confident Rule would not be far behind.

Exiting the casino to the private garden at the rear of the villa, Sinclair stopped at the entrance to the elaborate maze that was the centerpiece of the garden to light a cigarette, then causally made his way to the center of it. Pausing, he turned around looking around for the girl. The redhead stepped out from behind a large plant. “Lord Sinclair.”

“What is it you want to tell me?” His eyes traveled up and down the vision in front of him appreciatively and he wondered where she fit into the scheme of things. 

“The Napoleons," She held one out for Sinclair to see. "I was told that they are not what they seem…” Her softly accented voice spoke urgently. Before she could say more, however, her beautiful eyes closed and her body slumped to the ground.

Rule was suddenly there, his gun drawn, as Sinclair crouched down next to the girl.

“She’s dead,” Sinclair looked up and confirmed dryly, gently turning the limp body over, a gunshot wound in her back answered how. 

Rule replaced his gun in its holster. “Damn.”

“Maybe not,” Sinclair said thoughtfully. He held up a gold Napoleon that he’d retrieved from the dead girl’s hand.

 

As they entered the hotel lobby, Solo twirled the coin around with his fingers, trying to make sense of the clue.

Templar watched, becoming more aware of how attractive the U.N.C.L.E. agent was dressed in his tuxedo. “What say we go to my room? I’ll show you my etchings.” He would have preferred spending time with the Russian, but the American showed certain possibilities.

Napoleon laughed, his first genuine laugh in a while. “You never give up, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“I’m sorry. It just wouldn’t feel right,” Napoleon said sincerely.

Templar correctly deduced that Solo’s refusal had something to do with his partner. “Do you honestly think if the roles were reversed your partner wouldn’t?”

Napoleon looked down, not answering. 

Templar nodded, accepting the silence. “Well, it’s your loss,” he said as he boarded the elevator and punched the button that would take him to his floor.

Napoleon stood there awhile, fingering the coin. He hadn't answered because deep down he knew Illya wouldn't have refused. He wasn't sure how he knew - just that he did and the thought saddened him. Sighing, he pushed the elevator button, bringing it back down, to go to his room – alone.

 

As Templar opened the door to his room, he found himself grabbed from behind and thrown across the floor. Kicking at the man attacking him, Templar couldn’t help but wonder where Solo was when he needed him.

Napoleon exited the elevator and was startled by the sounds of violence coming from Templar’s room. Hurrying over, Solo rushed in. Three men were attacking the Englishman. Solo barreled in, tackling one of the men holding Templar down. Rolling over the man and coming up, Napoleon sent a right cross to one of the other men, knocking him across the room. Straightening up, Napoleon spotted Templar on the far side of the room, dropping to the floor and pulling his assailant down and over. Napoleon whirled as he was being grabbed from behind, accidentally sending his attacker crashing into Templar. Templar grabbed the man by the shirt, cocked his arm and hit him squarely in the face. That brought the tally to all three assailants down. Templar and Solo, both winded, looked at each other from different sides of the room. 

Before anything could be said, Templar shouted, “Look out – behind you!”

Napoleon whirled toward the door, the knife that whizzed by his ear just missing him and hitting yet another man, standing in the doorway, who had been about to fire his gun into Solo’s back.

Solo sent a glance of thanks to the Englishman before going to examine the dead man. Templar joined him, removing the knife from the body and replacing it in the sheath attached to his forearm. With all men down for the count both Napoleon and Templar stood still for a moment surveying the damage, and each used one hand to brush fallen hair back off his face. The identical movement struck both men as funny and soon they were rolling with laughter. A noise behind them caused the laughter to stop and they swung around in time to see the first three attackers escaping through a window.

Realizing that there was no way they could stop the escapees, Napoleon turned to the dead one at the door. “What should we do with this one?”

“Why don’t we just leave him here to astonish the maid?” Templar suggested as he grabbed the dead man’s feet and pulled the body more fully into the room.

Solo nodded his agreement and led the way to his room next door. Stretching his aching back, he was surprised to feel Templar’s hands on his shoulders, gently massaging his sore muscles. Then Templar’s lips were at his neck, leaving gentle kisses that left him shaking. “Templar,” Napoleon warned.

“Surely you can see, in your type of work, that one needs to take pleasure when and where you can find it,” Templar reasoned. The adrenaline rush left over from the fight had fueled his desires.

Napoleon looked down considering. It was the same rhetoric he used with Illya about his dalliances with women. Turning to look into the blue eyes of the Englishman, Napoleon decided that surrender was the better part of valor.

 

Napoleon awoke the next morning feeling – well, he wasn’t exactly sure. Sated? Satisfied? Both. He looked over to the man lying next to him. Templar was still sleeping on his stomach, his muscular back trailing down to an even more inviting rear. Solo couldn’t resist running a finger down Templar’s spine, a wide smile appearing as the body beneath his finger shivered.

Blue eyes opened and Templar said drowsily, “Good morning. And it was good, wasn’t it?”

“Hmmm,” said Napoleon noncommittally.

Templar laughed as he rolled over and stretched. His lean body was muscular and firm, his morning erection evident. 

Unable to resist, Solo ran his hand down that body to the taut stomach, then back up to tweak the dusky nipples. Leaning forward, he lowered his mouth to sample those nipples, licking and nibbling.

“Ah, that’s nice,” Templar sighed. Last night had been exceedingly good, in fact more than good. Templar had heard that Solo was a master with the ladies. Well, so was he for that matter. But he hadn’t been aware that Solo was a master with men as well. The pleasuring had been mutual, of that Templar was sure. After all he’d given as good as he got. Too bad Solo was already taken. Or was he?

Templar reached over to the nightstand, picking up the tube of lubricant left there the night before. Taking Solo’s hand, Templar covered the fingers with the contents, he then spread his legs and guided Solo’s finger to his entrance.

Solo’s warm brown eyes burned with lust as he pushed his finger inside. He still felt guilty about this, feeling somehow that he was betraying his partner. But not guilty enough to stop. He rained kisses over Templar’s face as his fingers did their job, amazed that a man like Templar, so like himself, was allowing him to take control in this.

“Now,” Templar ordered.

Solo’s wide smile was back. “Begging becomes you.”

“I’m not begging …I’m ordering,” Templar gruffly answered.

Rolling atop Templar, one arm supporting him, Solo used the other to position his cock at the opening. Then Simon brought his legs up over Napoleon’s shoulders, opening himself further. Napoleon looked down at the handsome face, the blue eyes that were shining with desire and pressed forward. Fully sheathed, the American paused for a moment before slowly and rhythmically thrusting in earnest.

Gripping Napoleon by the rear, Simon pulled him forward, effectively impaling himself on the large cock. The sensation of being filled was exquisite, but the tempo was much too slow. Bringing his legs down and around the American’s waist, changing the angle, Templar increased the pace considerably, thrusting up to pull Solo more fully into his body, faster and faster. Soon the two men were rutting like wild animals in heat. Moans, groans, and occasional growls escaping their lips.

Templar’s cock, currently trapped against Solo’s taut stomach, was ready to burst. The friction was almost excruciating in its gratification. With Napoleon’s cock slamming into him, Templar’s body surged up, sending waves of cum over both men. 

The pleasure of Templar’s orgasm pulsing through his channel was overwhelming and Solo’s balls tightened as waves of pleasure sent him over the edge and he emptied himself into Templar’s body.

The phone rang, bringing both men back to the present. Napoleon started to withdraw when Simon held him in place. “Stay,” the adventurer requested.

Solo bent over and reached for the phone, remembering just in time who he was posing as. “Harry Rule.”

“Harry, it’s me.” The Contessa DeContini’s voice spoke over the receiver. “I’ve got bad news.”

Solo sat up in alarm, his cock slipping from its snug home. “What?” 

“Your white knight’s been taken.”

“Damn.”

“He also mentioned two words. Train and Milan. Mean anything?”

“Perhaps. Thanks, Contessa.” Solo hung the phone up and grabbed some clothes.

“What is it?” Templar asked in concern.

“Illya’s been taken.” Solo’s tone was hard as he pulled up his pants.

Templar merely nodded, as he too began throwing on clothing. “Do we know where?”

“Illya mentioned train and Milan.” Solo said, pulling a shirt over his torso.

 

Captured

Kuryakin regained consciousness. His head and arms hurt, and judging by the motion he was experiencing, he was on a train. He appeared to be hanging suspended from the ceiling of a box car, his hands over his head. His memory slowly returned. He remembered seeing Monica off, handing her the coin he'd managed to palm. Much later during the night he snuck into the study and opened the desk drawer containing the fake Napoleons. Something about the weight of the Napoleons had not felt right and he wanted confirmation. Hearing someone at the door, he’d quickly put the chest back and hidden behind the curtains.

Click – the lights went on.

“Would you like a drink?” Crow asked.

“No, thank you,” a feminine voice answered. “What are you going to do about him?”

“Kuryakin?” Crow said, the sound of ice clicking against glass. 

Illya took in a sharp breath. They obviously knew who he was.

“Don’t worry about him. By the time he figures everything out, we’ll be on the train to Genoa, then on to Corsica by boat and THRUSH will be richer by billions. Billions, I tell you.”

“You’re very sure of that?” The woman’s voice was harsh.

“You bet I am. You’ve seen the final plans, there’s no possible way we can fail,” Crow boasted.

“Then I shall leave and make my report to Central,” the woman said.

Illya remained hidden for several minutes after the door closed. Then going to the phone, he had dialed a number he’d memorized before leaving New York.

“Contessa DiContini,” the voice over the phone said.

Illya could hear the door behind him open. He only had seconds. “Caroline – white knight taken.” Footsteps were hurrying closer. “Train – Milan.” Then something hit him over the head and he slowly sank to the floor, the telephone still in his hand. 

 

Solo and Templar dressed in record time and were out of the hotel. A young man was just getting out of a Mazeratti and the two men commandered it. 

Templar got behind the wheel, put car in gear, and set off like a shot before the owner could do more then shout after them, “Hey!”

Napoleon took out his communicator and started making arrangements. He was interrupted when Templar asked, “Should we go to the airport?”

“No. It will take too long.” 

Templar nodded, fortunately he knew Italy fairly well. He glanced at the gas gauge, relieved to see it showing a full tank. He’d driven in races before, the Italian Grand Prix just recently, and now they were on a race to save a life. The life of a young Russian.

Solo had gone back to talking on the communicator, while Templar went over his mental map of the road system that would take them to Milan. But once they got there, how would they manage to find one small blond person?

“Tell me…how did the two of you get together?” Templar asked once Solo put away his communicator.

Solo looked over at Templar. Biting on his bottom lip, he answered, “We’ve worked together since ’58 though we’ve only been partnered regularly the last couple of years. There is no one I trust more.”

“Or love?” Templar glanced quickly at the American’s face. “And how does he feel about you?”

That was a question for which Napoleon didn’t have an answer. “Shut up and drive.”

It was a long drive and Solo refused to talk for the rest of the journey. He did, however, take out two coins. The first that he had carried with him since leaving New York and the second was the one they’d found on the dead girl’s body in Rome. Napoleon flipped each coin in turn, then studied them. Suddenly an idea struck him, he straightened in his seat and put the coins away, an inscrutable smile on his face.

Even with Templar driving it was almost dusk before they got to their destination. They were just about out of gas when they drove into Milan. All things considered, they had made excellent time. 

“Where to now?” Templar asked.

“U.N.C.L.E. Italy informed me there is a private train coming into Milan,” Napoleon looked down at his watch. “Oh, in about twenty minutes.” 

Simon’s knowledge of Italy was indispensible and they soon found an overpass that looked down upon train tracks. Ten minutes later they looked in the distance as a train came barreling down the tracks. “Are you sure it’s the right train?” Templar asked.

Napoleon pulled out a small box from his pocket. He fiddled with a knob aiming the box at the train. “There…fourth car from the end.”

Templar raised an eyebrow as he looked at the box in Solo’s hand. “You had him bugged,” he said admiringly. 

“You didn’t really think I’d let him go off without any way of finding him again?” Napoleon’s eyes showed his amusement. 

Templar shook his head. “I should have known.”

Waiting until the train was passing directly beneath them, the two men jumped down onto one of the cars. Bending over against the wind, they ran across the top of the cars , making their way down to the last car in the train. Catching their breaths, they proceeded to climb swiftly down a ladder. Carefully looking through the glass in the door, both men spotted at least two guards, each dressed in the coveralls favored by THRUSH employees. The emblem of the black bird on the sleeve was a dead give-away. Solo was now positive they had the right train.

With out a word, Napoleon pointed to the door and held up three fingers. Templar nodded as Napoleon pulled out his gun. When Solo held up his hand, slowly bringing down one finger at a time, Templar opened the door. Solo rushed in first, taking out the first guard before the man even had time to go for his gun. Templar, right behind him, rolled across the floor. He was too late. Napoleon’s fast reflexes taking out the second guard.

Not even breathing hard, Napoleon watched as Templar got up and brushed off his suit. 

They continued down the corridor of the train, ever watchful for more guards. Solo and Templar were taken by surprise in the next car, when they happened upon four guards playing cards. Before the men could pick up their guns, Solo and Templar were upon them. Solo lost his gun in the ensuing battle, helplessly watching it as it flew out an open door in the side of the boxcar. Grabbing the guard who’d caused its loss by the shirtfront, Napoleon dropped backwards to the dirty floor, sending the man over and accidently out the open door. 

Templar had his hands full with two of the other guards. He’d managed to kick one guard in the groin and pulled back his arm to hit him in the abdomen, when his elbow managed to incapacitate the guard who had snuck up behind him. Turning fast, Templar swung his fist, sending the second guard backwards into Solo’s arms. Solo tossed this one out the open door as well. Two down, two to go.

One of the last two guards was making a break for it out the door at the far end and Solo was after him in a flash, leaving the final guard to Templar’s care.

The last guard had found a crowbar and was swinging it for all he was worth. Templar managed to duck, missing being hit by inches. The two men danced around for a few minutes, before Templar kicked the bar, sending it out the open door. The guard watched in open mouthed amazement, and was even more surprised when Templar’s foot sent him flying out that door.

Solo caught up with the man he was chasing before he could enter the next car. The two men scrambled around, and Solo found himself backed up against the railing between the two cars. The guard got in a lucky punch, sending Napoleon over the railing. Fortunately Solo’s luck held up as, at the last moment, he managed to catch hold of the railing, his feet dragging the ground. 

Templar rushed out the door just in time to see Solo go over the railing. Barreling into the last guard, Templar sent him flying over the railing as well. Templar rushed to the railing, relieved to see Solo hanging on. Getting a grip on the American's wrists, Templar pulled him up and back onto the train.

“Thanks,” Solo said as he brushed his hair back into place.

“Think nothing of it,” Templar responded.

The two men glanced into the next car. Seeing no guards they ran through it, the object of their search being in the car beyond.

“Hold it right there,” came a woman’s voice.

Both men froze and Solo’s head dropped as he let out a sigh of frustration. They didn’t have time for this. Both Solo and Templar slowly turned around to find two guns aimed in their direction. One was held by an attractive brunette, the owner of the voice, the other by an unknown male.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the great Napoleon Solo. Come to rescue your little friend?” the woman said as she motioned them to enter the compartment next to her, careful to keep her distance.

“Friend of yours?” Templar asked Solo. The two men obeyed her unspoken command, raising their hands above their heads.

Once inside the room, Napoleon looked at the woman. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

With a laugh the woman responded, “Who I am is unimportant. Let it suffice that everyone at THRUSH Central knows your face and that of your partner.”

“Who’s the other guy?” The man wanted to know.

The mysterious woman turned her attention to Templar. “I have no idea. Crow?”

Templar was feeling affronted. As he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, he offered, “My name’s Templar, Simon Templar.”

“Ah,” said Crow, recognizing the name. “and what is your interest in all this? You’re not U.N.C.L.E.”

“Does the name Roger Marshall ring a bell?” Templar asked.

“Ah, yes.” Turning to the mystery woman, Crow said, “You remember, the young man we had doing the engraving.” Crow turned back to Templar. “He thought he could steal from us. Nobody takes from THRUSH.”

Templar’s eyes grew cold.

The mystery women turned her attention back to Solo. “ I’ve heard a great deal about your special abilitities,” she said as she ran the tip of her gun down his chest.

Napoleon’s gaze followed the barrel and he sincerely hoped she didn’t plan to pull the trigger when it reached his groin. “I’m afraid your sources may have exaggerated somewhat.”

The gun was now traveling up and down Napoleon’s growing erection. The mystery woman smiled. “Oh, I don’t think either Angelique or Serena would exaggerate something like this.” She moved closer, the gun now pointed toward the floor.

Napoleon brought his hands down as if to pull the woman forward, his eyes holding her gaze. She leaned in for the kiss she expected and received an upper cut instead.

Before Crow could respond to the attack, he found a knife sticking out of his chest. He looked at Templar in astonishment before falling to the floor…dead.

Solo looked down at the mystery woman. “I don’t usually hit a lady,” he apologized to the body, “but then, you’re no lady.”

Templar looked up at Solo from the floor, where he was removing his knife from the dead man’s chest. “I dislike killing as a rule. However, in this case I felt I could make an exception.” Wiping the blood on the dead man’s shirt before replacing it into its sheath, Templar asked, “Tell me, does your charm always get you in this sort of trouble?”

Napoleon laughed. “You would have to ask Illya that. Speaking of…”

The two men left the compartment, racing toward the next car, searching for one blond-haired prisoner.

Napoleon skidded to a stop, Simon right behind him, almost passing the door to the car in which his partner was imprisoned. The two men looked through the barred window, seeing the Russian, his head lowered, his arms stretched over his head, hanging from the ceiling. 

“Allow me,” Templar said, pulling a metal device from the inside of his jacket, and then going to work on the door. In a matter of minutes, the door was opened.

Napoleon rushed inside, fear gnawing his guts. Anxiously he brushed back the blond hair bringing his partner’s eyes upward. 

The blue eyes opened. “Well, it’s about time. What took you so long? It feels like I’ve been hanging around forever.” 

A grin split Napoleon’s face. Evidently, nothing major was wrong. He exchanged glances with Templar before reaching up to release his friend.

Templar was circling the hanging body. “Don’t,” he advised the American.

Napoleon backed away. Was there something he had missed? “Why not?”

Templar stopped in front of the Russian hanging inches from the floor, his face level with Illya’s, an enigmatic smile on the Englishman’s face. “No reason. It has just occurred to me that this situation may have possibilities.”

Solo looked interested. “What kind of possibilities?”

“Which do you prefer, upstairs or down?” Templar asked as he continued to circle the hanging man.

“Down,” Napoleon said promptly, his eyes catching Templar’s.

Illya turned his body, trying to follow the Saint’s movements in spite of hanging up in chains. Surely, they weren’t talking about what he thought they were? He got his answer when Templar stopped slightly to one side of him, claiming his lips in an intense kiss. The Englishman’s hands were at the buttons of his uniform, undoing them slowly one by one.

Napoleon knelt on the floor; his hands going to the uniform’s trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping, letting gravity take its course. He kissed the firm abdomen as he ran his hand over Illya’s groin, excited by the growth he felt there.

Pressing a kiss on the white briefs, Napoleon reached up and gently pulled them down, careful of the swollen erection they contained. Gently he cupped and rolled the soft balls, then moved closer to take the Russian’s enlarged shaft into his mouth.

Illya couldn't do anything but hang there as his mouth was expertly plundered by the Englishman, who was also doing things to the nipples of his chest that defied description. That, combined with the mouth action his partner was bestowing on his lower region, was enough to put him into dazed ecstasy. 

When Templar finally let his mouth loose to devote time to the hardened nipples, Illya began letting out sounds of pleasure. “Stop….what if somebody comes?” he moaned softly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t think there was any chance of that. Everyone on this train is either dead or overboard,” Templar explained as he moved up to nibble at the Russian’s neck and earlobes. Templar paused in his ministrations and reached into his pocket, pulling out a tube. “Umm, Solo, you might need this.” 

Napoleon looked up in time to see the tube drop from Templar’s hand. Catching it, he examined it with a grin. “Ah, boy scouts?” he asked Templar. “After all, their motto is ‘Always be prepared.”

“Girl Guides, actually,” Templar responded before going back to ravishing Illya’s mouth.

As Napoleon’s mouth encased his hard shaft and Templar’s mouth invaded his, Illya reluctantly moved pulled his head away. His befuddled mind wanted nothing more than to accept the attention being bestowed on him, yet part of him had to wonder. “I hate to bring this up….but if there is no one left on this train, who’s driving it?”

Solo and Templar looked at each other from their respective positions. “I’m currently occupied,” Napoleon pointed out to Templar before going back to Illya’s cock.

Templar raised an eyebrow, then gave in to his curiosity and left the freight car to head in the direction of the engine. He arrived, somewhat surprised to find that there was indeed no engineer and that as far as he could tell the train was due to derail shortly.

Running as if his life depended on it, which it indeed did, Templar made his way back to the car that currently held the U.N.C.L.E. agents. He arrived just in time to see Napoleon swallow all the cum that his partner was releasing.

“I hate to bother the two of you,” Templar apologized. “But I think this train is about to crash.”

Napoleon hurriedly got off his knees and started pulling Illya’s clothing back together while Templar used his lock pick to set the limp Russian agent loose. 

“Do you think you can run?” Napoleon asked his partner as he caught him.

“You must be joking,” Illya said groggily. 

The two dark-haired men each grabbed an arm, placing them over their shoulder and ran down the center of the train to the caboose. Pausing for just a second, Templar shouted, “On the count of three. One…two…three!” The three men jumped into the darkness. Rolling down the side of the tracks, they finally came to rest just minutes before the train derailed, going up in smoke.

 

Ménage à trios

Two of the three men lay panting heavily from their leap. They had all gone limp during the jump in the hopes of avoiding serious injury. Illya, by reason of being so sated, was peacefully unconscious and resting on top of Napoleon. It was pure luck that the American was not injured, as he somehow insinuated himself between Illya and the ground during their leap, hoping to spare him serious injury. 

Templar had managed to tumble down the slope without too much damage to himself as well. He stood to try and brush the dust and dirt from his suit as he looked around to locate his two companions. He made his way to the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, checking to see if they were all right. 

Napoleon ran his hands over Illya’s limp unconscious body, relieved that his breathing was normal and no sounds of pain emerged. Napoleon’s attention was caught by Simon as he knelt beside them. Seeing the worry and concern on the Englishman’s face, Solo gave him a reassuring smile. “He’s fine.”

“How can you tell?” asked Templar with a smile as he levered himself from the ground. Both men observed that a good part of the wreckage was burning. “I think we had best vacate the vicinity, don’t you?” he suggested. Looking down at Solo, it occurred to him that the burning debris would act like a signal to everyone nearby.

“I think you’re right,” Solo panted as he carefully rolled Illya off him. With Templar’s help, he managed to stand upright. Bent over gasping his thighs, Solo gulped in breaths of air. When he felt able, he knelt next to his partner and scooped him up in his arms. “Lead the way,” Napoleon said to Templar.

Templar canvassed the area with his eyes, spotting a light shining through the trees not too far away. Without a word, he set out toward that light with Solo not far behind.

The light was not as close as it appeared and it was a full thirty minutes before they arrived at the source. Templar knocked at the door to the cottage, disappointed when no one answered. He walked over to one of the windows nearby and peeked in. The cottage appeared vacant, there were sheets thrown over all the furniture, except for the light that someone had left on that indicated that the vacancy was rather recent.

“What’s wrong?” Napoleon asked through puffs of trying to get air back into his lungs. He would have thought he was in better shape than this. Unfortunately, he had managed to hurt his leg during the jump but hadn’t realized it. The last fifteen minutes of the trek to the cottage had been excruciating, but he was not about to admit it.

Templar considered breaking a window, but opted to use his lock pick, which had luckily survived their jump from the moving train. Opening the door, he turned to help Solo and Kuryakin into the room. He assisted in lowering Illya to the nearest flat surface. 

While Solo and Kuryakin rested on the floor, Templar went around pulling sheets from various pieces of furniture. The furniture was plain but solid; a table with two chairs, a small sofa, and a bed were some of his finds. He went to the sink near the table and turned the tap, rewarded when water splashed into the bowl. Using his hand, he slurped down some cool water, before splashing some on his face.

Templar had noticed Napoleon limping, and sensed that it would be better not to say anything. Now, however, with Illya not in urgent need of attention, Templar felt something needed to be done about it. 

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered the dark-haired agent.

Napoleon’s eyes widened. “Here? Now?”

Thoroughly amused, Templar turned back to the sink, relieved to find that the water running was hot and adding soap. “I want to check you for damages. What did you think I wanted?”

“Knowing you, anything is possible,” Napoleon said dryly as he managed to get up off the floor on the second try. 

Templar was currently removing his clothing, washing himself clean. When Solo had managed to undress, Templar brought a bowl of hot sudsy water to the bed, indicating that he wanted the American to lie down. Solo got on the bed, face down too tired and sore to care anymore. Templar sat beside him, running the wet cloth over the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s back, checking for the bumps and bruises he knew must be there. The cloth went over the firm buttocks, then lower along the thighs, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain from Solo when he found the tender spot. With firm hands, Templar gently massaged the damaged leg; fortunately, nothing appeared to be too bad other than the nice bruise that was forming. 

“Turn over,” Templar ordered when he was done. “You’re going to have a nice size mark there tomorrow.”

Napoleon, his chin resting on his forearm, had found Templar’s touch extremely arousing. So when he obeyed the order to turn over, it became abundantly clear to Templar as well.

Templar, unable to resist his own attraction, lowered himself atop the U.N.C.L.E. agent, his mouth taking hungry possession of the other man’s. Moans escaped both men, as they moved against each other. Templar’s mouth traveled down Napoleon’s throat causing the American to fling back his head, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Pleased with the response from Napoleon, Simon’s lips moved lower to the peaked nipples; his hand moved to cup and roll the other man’s genitals. 

Templar was contemplating looking for some lubrication, when he felt a slippery finger enter his anus even as a warm and obviously naked body descended on his back. 

“You didn’t think I would just lie there and let you drill my partner did you?” a voice, its Russian accent evident, whispered threateningly into his ear. One finger became more as they stretched and twisted within in him preparing him for the hard cock that entered him, thrust to the hilt.

Napoleon was lost in a sea of pleasure as Templar’s hands and mouth roamed his body. When those sensations suddenly stopped, he opened his eyes, dumbstruck to find his Russian partner’s heated eyes staring down at him from behind Templar. Slender fingers of one hand weaved through his hair, dragging his head up so that the Russian could claim his mouth in a hard possessive kiss.

Pulling back from the kiss and looking deeply into Napoleon’s dark coffee-colored eyes, Illya hissed angrily, “You are mine. No one touches you there but me. Understand.”

Napoleon’s mouth was dry as he looked into the arctic blue eyes. “If you insist,” he agreed, relieved when the eyes went from cool to tender.

“Ah, gentlemen? Remember me?” Templar asked. He raised himself up onto his knees and purposely squeezed his muscles around the hard shaft deep inside him, in the hopes of reminding Illya what it was there for.

With a smile of embarrassment for the American, the Russian drew back before slamming home again giving the Englishman under him what he wanted. Holding onto Simon’s waist Illya started to thrust hard. As short gasps turned into deep moans, Illya closed his eyes, giving in to the pleasure of the irresistibly tight channel. Illya’s cock was sliding in and out of the heated tunnel, causing spasms of pure delight to run through his throbbing cock.

Napoleon was beginning to feel left out of things; especially after that demanding kiss that Illya had given him. The sight of his partner pounding away inside the Englishman was so erotic that it made his already hard cock harder. His eyes hungrily traveled down Templar’s well-developed body to rest on Simon’s leaking cock just begging for his attention. After all, if it wasn’t for Templar, he and Illya would never have taken that next step in their relationship. 

Napoleon’s finger reached out, catching a drip of creamy fluid that was leaking from Templar’s swollen cock and brought it to Illya’s mouth, watching as a pink tongue extended to lick it from his finger. So erotic was the sight, that he almost came right then. Sliding beneath Templar’s kneeling body, Napoleon took the hard shaft into his mouth, giving it all the attention it could want.

Templar felt as if he had died and gone to heaven, Solo’s hot mouth was working magic on his neglected shaft while Kuryakin was sending waves of pleasure through his body. Stretching his rectum almost beyond endurance. In spite of all his sexual experience - this was a first. Two men at once, two women, yes, but men not so much.

Templar’s muscles started shaking as he concentrated on staying up on his knees letting both men pleasure him. Soon he shuddered as his cock pulsed, sending stream after stream of ejaculation down the American’s throat. The intensity of his orgasm affected the rod inside him and with a final thrust it too let loose with warm, wet flood of semen that coated the inside of his channel.

Solo’s head slipped out from beneath Templar’s body and he rolled away just in time, as Templar finally collapsed on the bed. He stretched out on his back next to the two exhausted men, his own cock still aching hard, leaving a thin trail of pre-cum over his thighs.

Illya lifted up bleary eyes from his position draped across Templar’s back and spotted Napoleon’s predicament. Pulling out of Templar’s body and rolling off to the other side of the bed, Illya reached over and patted the Englishman’s buttocks. “Your turn,” he muttered drowsily as his eyes closed and his breathing evened out in sleep.

Templar lifted up slightly and looked back at the blond, before turning his gaze to the panting American. He was exhausted, but seeing the raging hard-on the American was sporting, he thought 'Oh what the hell. Turnabout is fair play' before moving closer and covering it with his mouth. Fortunately, it only took a couple of deep sucks for Napoleon to release his load down Simon’s enticing throat.

Soon there were three very tired, sated men asleep on the bed.

 

Back in Rome the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were in Napoleon’s room after a mercifully short goodbye with Templar.

Napoleon put his packed suitcase on the freshly made bed, opened it, and withdrew Illya’s communicator.

Illya took and returned it to his pocket, then nodded his thanks.

Re-locking his suitcase, Napoleon pulled it up on end before sitting heavily beside it. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Illya looked at him quizzically. “You didn’t seem to be having any problems last night.”

Napoleon winched at the statement and muttered, “You just don’t get it, do you.”

“What is there to get?”

Exasperated, Napoleon replied, “We don’t seem to want the same thing.”

Illya raised his eyebrows. “And exactly what is it you want?”

“It not what I want,” Napoleon said bitterly. “I don’t know how you feel. How much you care and it’s the fact that…it doesn’t seem to matter to you if it’s me or someone else.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” Illya asked dangerously.

“You appeared to be enjoying Templar,” Napoleon accused, his face going red as he recalled just how well Illya had been enjoying himself.

“If I recall, so were you,” Illya charged. “That wasn’t my cock you were sucking.”

Napoleon looked down at the floor. “I couldn’t help it. And that’s the real problem: I should have been able to.”

"When it comes to sex, you have always had a problem." Illya sighed. He moved closer to his lover, using his finger to raise Napoleon’s chin to look him in the eye, his thumb brushing his partner’s lips. “If it helps, neither could I,” he said softly.

“It was totally unprofessional,” Napoleon shamefully admitted. 

“Perhaps, but your rescue was spectacular,” Illya said, his eyes dancing with amusement.

Placing his hands on his partner’s shoulders, Illya knelt on the bed straddling Napoleon’s thighs, forcing his lover to lie flat on his back.

“Ah, what are you doing, Illya?” Napoleon asked warily, his hands captured above his head by the Russian holding him down.

“Napoleon, you really are insecure aren’t you?”

Letting out a deep sigh Napoleon replied, “ With you, yeah.” Wiggling under the scrutiny of those blue eyes, the American continued, “It’s becoming increasingly difficult for me not to want to hold you, touch you… to fill you.”

“Is that what you want?” Illya tilted his head to one side, intently studying the man beneath him.

“Selfish of me, I know,” Napoleon murmured. 

Illya laughed softly. “I have no objections. In fact, look at it this way, now I don’t have to worry about your constantly coming on to women, jeopardizing our missions.”

“Why do you think I did that in the first place?” Napoleon laughed, his hands roaming down Illya’s back. “It was self defense to keep my hands off of you.” Laughter turned into a frown, and Napoleon turned his face away. “What if I can’t control this…and we’re in the middle of a mission? Like this mission…like now?” 

“Then I will have to have enough control for both of us. Work will be work and in our off times we will indulge ourselves.” Illya looked down at his watch and reluctantly pushed himself up off Napoleon and away. “Like now. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss our plane.”

Anyone watching as the two men boarded the plane for its long flight back to New York would not have been able to discern anything from their behavior. Napoleon flirted with the flight attendants, while Illya read or slept. To the casual observer nothing had really changed.

No one, not even Illya, knew the mantra Napoleon repeated over and over in his mind. Off time…indulge…off time…indulge.

 

“And so that’s all there was to it. The real coins were encased in a substance to make them appear counterfeit. There were no counterfeit coins at all.” Napoleon was relaying to his superior upon their return to New York. “Of course they were not real Napoleons, either. Just real gold.”

Waverly nodded. “Your reports were extremely vague on some aspects of this case.” He was unaware of the quick glance exchanged between his two top agents. “However, I am impressed by this Simon Templar. Do you think he could be persuaded to work with us again?”

Napoleon somehow managed to keep a straight face. “Oh, I don’t know. If we ask him in just the right way, he might be persuaded. What do you think, Illya?”

“Oh, I quite agree,” Illya responded, positive he knew what the right way meant.


	2. Gentle Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and three English Series - The Saint (Starring Roger Moore) with bits from The Persuaders (also starring Roger Moore and Tony Curtis) 
> 
> Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin meet Simon Templar once again. This time Napoleon has a very personal problem. Templar takes it upon himself to intervene with the help of Lord Brett Sinclair and Daniel Wilde, two international playboys, and masters in the art of persuasion.

Illya Kuryakin shifted restlessly, a half smile lighting his face in his sleep. ‘Napoleon’ he mouthed, his dream this night taking an erotic turn, his partner and lover was in his bed using his talented hands to slowly and gently explore his body, finding all the places that made him feel so very good. Lips were trailing kisses along the back of his neck. Turning in his sleep, Illya sighed with pleasure, it felt so real. The welcomed pair of lips had slid along his jaw to claim his mouth. Moaning softly he let his lips glide over Napoleon’s beloved face, finding the distinctive mole - in the wrong place.

Illya’s eyes snapped open, a quick grip and a flip sent whoever it was flying over the bed and into the wall on the other side. Groggily coming out of a drugged sleep, he cursed himself for needing the pain pills, thereby dulling his senses. He reached for the gun hidden under his pillow and aimed it at the man on the floor as he turned on the bedside light. His eyes blurred, then focused and widened in surprise. “Simon? Simon!” He let his grip on his gun slacken. “How did you get in here?” he asked.

Simon Templar looked up indignantly from his spot on the floor. “Do you often greet old friends this way?”

 

Suddenly the overhead lights came on. Blinking in the sudden light, Illya’s eyes turned to the doorway to find Napoleon leaning casually against the doorframe, his hand on the light switch. “Napoleon!” he called out delightedly, then remembering the reason for his pain filled sleep, narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home with your wife?” 

Simon’s eyebrows rose and he looked up at the dark haired U.N.C.L.E. agent in surprise. “You’re married!”

“I thought I would check on you,” Napoleon quietly informed his partner.

“Idite atsyuder. Go away,” Illya growled. The pain was back and he winced as he shifted his position to sit up better and folded his arms across his chest, glaring at the debonair figure of his partner. Then he spoiled it by listing slowly to one side.

“He’s actually married?” Simon voiced hopefully. “Does that mean you’re available?”

“Hello, Simon, and no, he is not available. It’s just a slight misunderstanding,” Napoleon said dryly as he moved over to the bed to sit next to his lover. He wrapped his arms around him pulling the reluctant Russian closer. “Still hurt?” he whispered in one ear, pleased when Illya, after a slight nod, and in spite of his foul mood, responded automatically, tilting his head upward slightly allowing him a brief kiss.

“Ahummm.” Templar cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on the floor. “Excuse me…remember me.” 

Napoleon sighed and grudgingly released the man he held in his arms. “What brings you to New York, Templar?” 

Simon effortlessly picked himself up off the floor, dusting his clothing. “Oh, I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.”

Two pairs of eyebrows raised in disbelief at that statement. Illya squirmed, the euphoric feeling from the medication receding. “Napoleon, as long as you are here, could you get me an icepack?” he asked hopefully.

Napoleon debated leaving the Russian alone with Templar for a moment before kissing the top of the blond head and leaving the room.

Templar moved to sit in the chair next to the bed. Leaning conspiratorially close he asked, “Sooo…he has actually gotten himself married?”

Putting the gun away, Illya shifted until he was settled more comfortably in the bed. Had it only been a month since Napoleon and Illya, during the Gold Napoleons Affair, started their new relationship. A relationship that had been going wonderfully until Napoleon had been sent on an assignment to protect a young accountant. Romance had bloomed its ugly head and Napoleon, try as he might, had succumbed to his natural instincts. Following the mission, Napoleon planned to gently break it off, as he had done many times before. The young accountant, however, had insisted that they go out one final time. Oh, he had tried to get out of it, but… he had awakened the next morning to find Claire lying in his bed, a wedding band on her finger. 

“You can’t be serious?” Templar asked Napoleon as he returned with an icepack, which he handed to Illya. 

“I don’t understand it. I fully intended to break the date, the next thing I know I’m married,” Napoleon said bitterly.

Canting his head in Napoleon's direction, Illya snorted. “He claims he doesn’t remember anything.” 

A frown marred Napoleon’s classic features. “I don’t claim. It is true…I don’t,” he insisted.

“Well,” said Templar as he watched Illya put the icepack down his pajama bottoms. They had done some kinky things in the past, but this was a new one. “The solution seems perfectly obvious. Get a divorce.” 

“I can’t,” Napoleon said flatly. 

“Why not?”

Napoleon closed his eyes, remembering the ultimatum Claire had thrown at him. The risk of exposure. That had not bothered him, that he could take, but she threaten to expose Illya as well. Even Illya was unaware of that fact. “She threatened to accuse me of rape and go public if I try,” he admitted to a smaller truth.

“Did you? I mean thinking she was saying yes when she actually meant no?” 

“Napoleon has never had to…all his conquests are most willing,” Illya slurred indignantly in Napoleon’s defense.

“Can she prove her claim?” the Englishman wanted to know.

“It doesn’t matter. Just the publicity…” Napoleon shuddered at the thought.

“Mr. Waverly would love that,” muttered Illya under his breath. 

“Which is why he doesn’t know,” Napoleon reminded him, then turning to the Englishman. “Worse still – she positively hates Illya.”

Templar cocked an eyebrow at the Russian.

“I made the mistake of accusing her of duplicity,” Illya said with a shrug.

“So she kicked him in the balls,” Napoleon finished, wincing in empathy, glad he hadn’t been there at the time.

“Hmmm,” Templar said leaning forward. “There must be something that can be done?”

Holding the Russian close, Napoleon buried his face in Illya’s hair. “There is nothing. Believe me. If there had been I would have done it.”

“Have you tried blackmail?” Templar suggested.

“Unfortunately there is nothing to blackmail her on. At least nothing U.N.C.L.E.’s resources can find,” the Russian said dourly. “I’ve checked.”

“This may be a mute point, but what does your U.N.C.L.E. think about all this?” Templar asked.

“They know, of course, that I’m married. I’m not sure how Waverly feels about it, he’s never said. Everyone else thinks it’s wonderful,” Napoleon said bitterly. “I won’t have U.N.C.L.E. involved in this if I can help it,” Napoleon said firmly. 

“His pride,” Illya threw in mockingly, earning a scowl.

“Hmmm.” Templar rose out of the chair. “Tell you what, leave it to me. I’m sure I can find some way to get you out of this.”

“Why? For what purpose would you do this?” Illya asked suspiciously.

Simon paused at the door and looked back. “Why, my little Russian Baklava? For your gratitude, of course.” He ducked as a pillow aimed at him nearly missed his head.

 

“Your aim was off,” Napoleon pointed out as he loosened his tie.

“I know,” Illya replied, his eyes never meeting his partner’s, as Napoleon tossed his jacket on the chair Templar had so recently vacated.

Napoleon paused in the act of unbuttoning his cuffs. “You do know that I would give anything for this marriage to have never happened.” He started unbuttoning his shirt while he waited for Illya’s answer.

Napoleon’s shirt had joined his jacket by the time Illya's quiet answer came. “Ya Znat - I know. I know.” 

“Is that all you are going to say?” Napoleon asked as he lowered his trousers.

“What more is there to say?” Illya said as he began unbuttoning his pajama top, at the same time scooting over to make room for Napoleon. “Won’t your wife,” the word stuck in his throat. “miss you? She’s already threatened to castrate me, in case you didn’t know.”

“I wouldn’t let her,” Napoleon said as he slid under the covers. There was something about Illya's explanation during their conversation with Templar that had bothered Napoleon. “Why did you lie to Templar?” 

Illya shrugged as he kicked off his pajama bottoms sending them to the floor. “I notice that you didn’t bother correcting me.” Technically, it hadn’t been a lie. He had accused her of duplicity; though that wasn’t the reason that she had attacked him. “Why did you tell her about us?”

Napoleon turned to one side, leaning up on one elbow. He ran the back of his free hand down the side of the Russian’s face. “I thought …if she knew, that she would be disgusted and let me go.”

Illya leaned into the caress. “Didn’t work, did it?”

“No.” Napoleon gave up contemplating Illya’s tempting lips to press a kiss on them. Kissing Illya was much different from kissing Claire. With Claire, it meant nothing. After a moment, he pulled away and looked questioning into Illya’s blue eyes. “You really checked her out?”

“Ummm, yes. Discreetly of course.” Illya was finding it hard to concentrate. 

Napoleon’s hand had not exactly been idle. Napoleon’s fingers slid down the slender throat that arched to his touch. Lightly down the sternum, they paused to tweak a budding nipple before Napoleon’s talented tongue took over, eliciting a gasp. “I even went one better. I took a sample of your blood and had it analyzed.” 

Napoleon’s hand trailed lower, teasing the soft hair that surrounded a hardening staff. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned that, Illya thought as Napoleon withdrew his hand that had been so close to his very aroused organ.

“You did what?” Napoleon asked, flabbergasted. “When?”

“Not saying,” Illya said, taking Napoleon’s hand and putting it back where it belonged, holding it in place and thrusting into it. “I may have to do it again sometime.”

“And?” Napoleon persisted as he gave the rigid shaft a hard tug.

“And nothing. The reports were negative.” Illya’s body responded to the increasingly blissful sensation of Napoleon’s hand milking him. “Pazhalsta - Please,” Illya moaned, gripping the back of Napoleon’s head, carding his finger through the thick dark hair, pushing it lower.

Napoleon’s tongue teased the slit, before the warm wet cavern of his mouth engulfed the throbbing cock. A hand crept lower to engulf the swollen balls, drawing out a painful hiss at the touch. Napoleon’s mouth left the pulsing cock to gently ask, “Still tender?” A slight nod, then “I’ll make it fast then.” The mouth was back, the hands holding his hips in place, keeping him from thrusting too hard. Soon the long and hard sucking had him spurting into Napoleon’s mouth.

During the past hour, rain had started to fall, heavy sheets sliding down the window. Occasionally the lightening would flash into the darkened room casting a glow that highlighted Illya’s light hair and body. Napoleon gathered his sated partner in his arms and kissed the top of his blond head tenderly. Napoleon missed the passion they usually shared, the lust Illya had shown that first time in his kitchen. He quelled his growing desire, Illya was not up to it and if there was one thing he did not want to do, it was to hurt Illya further. Thunder rang in his ears, and after a short time, Napoleon reluctantly slid out of the bed and started dressing.

“I think it best we not do this again,” Illya said, his voice firm with resolution. Napoleon paused in the act of dressing ready to protest. These stolen moments were all that made life bearable these days. Surely, there must be some way he could gently persuade Illya to change his mind.  
“At least not until your marriage is resolved one way or another,” Illya amended.

The look of adamant determination on Illya’s face told Napoleon that Illya meant what he said. Silently he finished dressing, keeping his eyes carefully away from the wanton figure his partner made splayed on the tangled sheets. Napoleon’s shoulders drooped as he opened the door to head back to his apartment… and Claire.

 

 

Seeing Double

At the same time, Danny Wilde came bursting into a London flat. “Brett, old buddy, old pal. You will never guess what I just heard?”

Brett Sinclair looked up from the book he was reading and set down his brandy snifter. He had long since grown use to his American friend bursting in on him. Sitting there in his smoking jacket, the handsome Englishman took a puff of his cigar as he raised an eyebrow.

“Caroline…you remember Caroline. The Contessa di Contini? She says she saw you in a casino in Rome last month. Isn’t that amusing?” Danny called over his shoulder as he helped himself to his friend’s liquor. 

“Very, Danny,” Brett said dryly, as he set aside his book.

Danny finished pouring his drink and sauntered over to sit on the coffee table. “Especially since you and I were together last month…and we were not in Rome.” He sipped his drink, his eyes on the British Lord. “So are you going to tell me about it or not?” 

“There is really nothing to tell.” Sinclair sat back, blowing a smoke ring and considered whether Daniel Wilde would drop the subject or not.

“Oh, don’t give me that malarkey,” Danny insisted. “Give.”

With a look of apprehension, Sinclair reached for his brandy snifter. It had all seemed so simple when the charming American agent had pleaded with him to let them use his identity. “Daniel, what I am about to tell you must to be kept in absolute confidence.”

“I’m all ears.”

“A couple of months ago I was contacted by an agency that needed to…borrow…my identity.”

Danny, a skeptical expression on his face, settled his hands on each thigh. “Borrow you say?” 

“Yes, Daniel. That’s all there was to it.” Sinclair looked for his book with plans of returning to his reading.

“Why all the secrecy?”

“I have no idea, Danny,” Sinclair said absently. “I didn’t ask.”

Daniel nodded as if it all made sense. “Was she pretty?”

Sinclair while in the process of taking another sip his brandy, choked. “How did you...never mind. In answer to your question, yes, as a matter of fact, she was very pretty.”

Wilde ran his hands together gleefully. “So these guys, they’re in your debt, right? Does she have a friend for me?”

Sinclair leaned back; he was going to enjoy this. “As a matter of fact she does.” pausing dramatically. “His name is Mark I believe. Mark Slate.”

The effect that had on Sinclair’s American friend was all he could hope for.

“Ha ha. Very funny,” Wilde answered in disgust. Getting up he strode purposely to the door. Halfway out, he stuck his head back in. “We still on for Friday night?”

“Of course.” Sinclair picked up his cigar and went back to his book sure that his friend would never change.

 

“You better hurry up, Your Lordship, or we’re going to be late,” Danny called out from the sitting room.

“I’ll be ready shortly,” Sinclair called back, admiring his reflection in the mirror and reaching for his tie. “Just what is so important about going to another nightspot?” A knock at the door caused him to pause. “Danny, would you mind getting that?”

Danny went to answer the door. “This is not just another nightspot. This is the grand opening of just the hottest hot spot in all London,” he called over his shoulder as he turned the knob. Opening the door, he looked out expectantly, his jaw dropping when the man standing there turned around. 

“Mind if I come in?” Simon Templar asked politely before stepping around the stunned American and entering the room.

Sinclair entered from his bedroom adjusting his cuffs. “Who was it, Daniel?” only to come face to face…with himself.

“How do you do. The name is Templar…Simon Templar,” Templar said, holding out his hand to the man he resembled. 

Unable to take his eyes off his doppelganger as he shook his hand, Brett said aside to Wilde, “Where are your manners, Daniel? Offer our guest a drink.”

“Martini, please,” Templar replied as Wilde headed toward the bar.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Daniel said, expertly mixing the martini. “I can’t get over the resemblance.”

“I quite understand, Danny – Daniel Wilde isn’t it?” Simon strolled casually around the room-making note of the handsome accessories placed here and there.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brett said dryly. “I can’t see it at all. Mr.…Templar is it? Please, have a seat,” he offered as he took his favorite chair.

“Call me Simon. I must apologize for interrupting your evening, but… some people think you and your friend are nothing more than international playboys. I know better. You two believe in justice and I believe if you’re willing to lend a hand, justice will prevail,” Templar said as he took the martini offered and moved toward the sofa.

Daniel passed another drink to Sinclair then leaned over the back of the chair the English Lord was sitting in to ask, “Just what kind of a hand?”

“I have this friend...,” Simon replied, taking a sip of his martini.

“What do you know…" Danny tapped Sinclair’s shoulder overly enthusiastically. "he’s got a friend.” With a big smile he addressed Templar, “Let me guess. Blonde…blue eyes?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?” The question caught Templar off guard.

Wilde looked triumphantly down at Sinclair. “You not only look alike, you both have similar taste.” Addressing Templar, he explained, “He likes blondes, too. What’s your friend’s name?”

Templar, finding the American’s zeal amusing, lifted an eyebrow. “Illya….Illya Kuryakin.” Templar had no desire to correct Wilde’s evidently erroneous assumption that Illya was female. Nor did he feel like explaining his lustful attraction to the blue-eyed blond, and his reasons for needing help. Let them assume what they will.

“Lovely name,” Daniel remarked dreamily. “Il…eee…ah? It sort of glides across the tongue. Exactly what kind of name is that?”

“Russian actually.”

“Danny, please,” Sinclair pleaded, somewhat irritated by Wilde’s taking over of the conversation. “Let the man speak. You’ll have to forgive Daniel.”

Templar continued, “Well as I was saying…my friend’s lover has gotten himself in a predicament.”

Daniel moved to seat himself on the coffee table with his elbow propped on one leg, his chin resting on one fist. “Fascinating. What kind of predicament?”

“Dan…iel!” Sinclair growled warningly as he glared at his Yankee friend.

Daniel rose from the coffee table and moved away. He made a point of raising his hands in surrender, before bringing one to his lips and twisting it, as if locking with a key.

“As I was saying,” Templar cast a look at the American to see if he was about to be interrupted again. “Napoleon…that’s my friend’s lover, seems to gotten himself in a bit of a fix. He has managed to get himself married.”

“Napoleon? Surely you can’t mean Napoleon Solo?” Sinclair exclaimed.

“As a matter of fact I do. You know him?” Templar inquired.

“No.” Sinclair turned to Wilde, who was looking very frustrated at not being able to speak. “Solo is an associate of April Dancer.” Then he turned back to Templar. “She was the agent who contacted me about letting you use my identity.” He frowned. “I still don’t understand how I can help your friend with this problem?”

“It’s all rather complicated, but according to Solo…he doesn’t remember doing it,” Templar explained, frowning at the American whose blue eyes indicated utter disbelief.

Forgetting his vow of silence, Danny blurted out, “And you believe him? That he doesn’t remember?”

Walking over to Wilde, Sinclair pulled him aside to whisper, “It has happened before, you know.” The two men exchanged significant looks before Sinclair turned back to Templar and asked, “I still do not quite understand what it is you think I can do?”

“Well, I had this idea.” It was a wild idea at best, but in the short time available it was the best Templar had been able to come up with. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind issuing an invitation to Solo and his new wife to your country estate.” 

Sinclair gave that some serious consideration before replying, “Okay, so I issue an invitation to them…then what?”

“I have a feeling that you will figure something out. Napoleon doesn’t want to involve U.N.C.L.E. and I’m not sure what they could do even if he did.” Templar shook his head. “Because of the suddenness of the marriage and Solo’s claims not to remember, Illya feels there is something not quite right about it.”

Sinclair’s expression was dubious. “You seem quite sure there is a nefarious plot of some sort.”

“Illya is…and I trust Illya’s judgment.”

Danny and Brett exchanged glances. Danny shrugged slightly. It wasn’t as if they had anything better to do. Besides, it might be a lark. Turning to Templar, Danny said, “Any friend of yours is a friend of ours. Tell you what, suppose I contact the Judge and see what he can find out. What did you say Solo’s wife’s name is?”

“Claire …Claire Hunsminger. H-u-n-s-m-i-n-g-e-r.”

“Hunsminger? What kinda name is that?” Danny muttered to himself as he went into Sinclair’s bedroom to make his call in private.

Templar cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Sinclair. “Are you and he…”

Sinclair paused bewilderedly, his glass inches from his lips. “Are Danny and I what?”

“Never mind,” Templar glossed over. “That would be Judge Fulton, I assume?” Cocking his head in the direction of the bedroom.

“Yes, do you know him?”

“We’ve met,” Templar replied dryly.

“I’m sure you have.” Sinclair smiled knowingly. Templar’s reputation would definitely have caught the Judge’s attention at some point he was sure. “In the mean time, I’ll contact April and have her extend the invitation, shall I?” It would certainly be a pleasure to see her again. “And what will you be doing?”

Templar set his drink down and got up. “I think I will stay out of it from this point on. My feelings on this might prove detrimental,” he said apologetically. Templar held out his hand as Sinclair rose from his chair. The two men shook hands just as Wilde reentered the room. “Thank you. I must be going now. I’m sure I am leaving this in the best of hands.” 

As Templar left the flat, Wilde turned to his friend and said, “The Judge is looking into it. Funny thing, though. When I told him who was involved…he laughed.”

 

 

Old School Chum

Napoleon Solo, not in the best of moods, entered U.N.C.L.E. headquarters through the agents’ entrance. He managed to hide it fairly well as the beautiful young lady behind the desk informed him, “Mr. Waverly would like to see you as soon as possible.” As he leaned over for her to pin on his badge, she murmured, “How’s married life treating you, Napoleon?”

“Oh, just fine,” he responded faintly. Walking through the sliding steel doors, he let his feelings out and muttered, “just absolutely frigin fine.” The grapevine had evidently been working again. It was what he got for informing Illya of the event in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Illya’s unusually loud “You did what?” still rang in his ear. Catching sight of his partner leaning against the wall waiting for him, Napoleon scowled. “A little sympathy here would be nice.”

The two agents walked down the steel lined corridor toward the elevator heading for Waverly’s office. Once inside the elevator and mindful of the security camera, Illya deliberately kept his eyes off Napoleon and murmured softly, “When you are once again available, I will show you just how sympathetic I can be.”

Napoleon sighed as the elevator door opened and Illya led the way out. It was embarrassing enough that he’d gotten himself in this situation. At least no one from U.N.C.L.E. knew it was a mistake. He wasn’t sure he could stand the humiliation.

They were still at the far end of the hallway that approached Waverly’s office when the door whished open and April Dancer breezed out, her footsteps brisk.

“April! Something up? You look as if you’re going somewhere?” Napoleon asked in surprise. 

“No, Luv, but you are,” April said brightly, as she patted Napoleon on his cheek and planted a kiss on Illya’s, receiving a shy smile in return.

“Hey, don’t I get one of those,” Napoleon protested.

April laughed as she used a manicured thumb to remove the lip print from Illya’s cheek. “You’re a married man, darling. Ta ta, boys,” she said sweetly before heading down the hallway, two puzzled eyes following her escape.

“I wonder what that was all about?” Napoleon murmured as they entered Waverly’s sanctuary.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Waverly said, not taking his eyes off the papers in front of him. “Please take your seats.”

The two men silently slipped into their accustomed chairs and waited for their superior to continue.

“Miss Dancer has brought a rather…unusual request to my attention.” Waverly finally raised his eyes to his two top agents. “Lord Brett Sinclair has issued an invitation to you, Mr. Solo, and your…umm…wife to spend a weekend at his country estate.” The door swished open and Lisa Rogers walked around the round table to lay two folders in front of Waverly. In the meantime, Waverly’s attention was focused on his chief enforcement agent. “Would you have any idea as to why?”

Napoleon, whose gaze had followed Lisa as she exited, exchanged a look of surprise with his partner. It was that look of surprise that passed between the two men that was enough to quell any suspicions Waverly might have harbored in regard to their involvement. 

“Umm…no, sir.” Napoleon returned Waverly’s gaze. “I’m afraid I haven’t.” 

“Wasn’t Lord Sinclair the name used by Templar during the Gold Napoleons Affair?” Illya asked.

“Quite right, Mr. Kuryakin, his presence in that little…um…affair was negligible,” Waverly stated not noticing the covert glance the two agents exchanged. “That makes this all the more puzzling.” 

“Am I to take it you want me to accept the invitation?” Napoleon asked calmly.

Waverly nodded, passing one of the folders to the senior agent. “I’m sure you will have no problem persuading…urrr…Mrs. Solo to accompany you?”

“No…no, sir,” Napoleon replied as he opened the folder, barely managing to suppress a shudder at the thought. He didn’t know a lot about the woman who was now his wife, but he was sure Claire would more than jump at a chance to spend the weekend at a country estate. His breath caught as he looked at the picture that was upper most in the folder. If he had not known better he would have thought it was Templar, the resemblance was uncanny.

He pulled the picture and surreptitiously passed it across to his partner, noting the slight intake of breath the blond took. Napoleon’s forehead furrowed as he looked through the rest of the folder, which contained detailed information along with photos of the estate. “Impressive. What will my cover be?”

“This is not an assignment, Mr. Solo, since Lord Sinclair helped us out in the…err...Gold Napoleons Affair, I see no reason not to accede to his request. Lord Sinclair has suggested that you …umm inform your…uh…wife that Sinclair is an old friend. An U.N.C.L.E. jet will, of course, be placed at your disposal,” Waverly said noting the startled glance Solo sent him. “That will be all,” Waverly said forestalling any further questions.

The two men rose from their chairs to exit the room.

“Ah…Mr. Kuryakin, sit down. I have a few matters I need to discuss with you,” Waverly ordered.

Illya exchanged a glance with Napoleon. “You go on, I’ll meet you for lunch in the commissary later.”

Napoleon indicated his agreement, then giving Waverly a nod, left.

Once the door was closed Waverly asked, “Mr. Kuryakin, have you noticed a…change in your partner recently?”

Illya paused in the act of sitting down. “Ah…no, sir. Surely you’re not suggesting that Napoleon is a double?” A ploy that had been tried before.

“No…no of course not,” Mr. Waverly said as he pulled one of his pipes from a nearby drawer. “Just lately, however, Mr. Solo has been a bit more indecisive than usual. Somehow I can’t help but feel that this damnable marriage of his is somehow connected.”

“Mr. Waverly, sir,” Illya protested. “Shouldn’t you be discussing this with Napoleon…I mean Mr. Solo?”

“Perhaps,” Waverly admitted. “But as I’ve mentioned before, while I feel that U.N.C.L.E. agents make the worse husbands, there is nothing…er… U.N.C.L.E. can do.”

Illya had the distinct impression that Mr. Waverly wasn’t so much talking about what U.N.C.L.E. could or could not do but about what he personally was able to do. 

“However if a third party were to step in,” Waverly continued. “That would be another matter entirely.”

As Mr. Waverly filled his pipe, Illya thought about what he was saying and more important not saying. When Waverly had lit his pipe, Illya ventured, “Sooo, you feel something is not…quite right with Mrs. Solo?”

“Let’s just say that I feel it is a distinct possibility,” Mr. Waverly said, puffing away. “That is why you, Mr. Kuryakin, will be leaving for London tonight.” He finally passed the other folder to Kuryakin, his eyes twinkled as the blond head shot up in surprise. “with some specially requested equipment. You will be met by a Mr. Daniel Wilde.”

Illya studied the picture in the folder. The photo showed a picture of a handsome man with dark curly hair and blue eyes that held a devilish glint. According to the documents in the file, Daniel Wilde was born in Brooklyn, a self-made millionaire who traveled the world as a jet-set playboy, interested in fast cars and beautiful women. Illya suppressed a smile. The description would also fit Napoleon or Simon. Closing the folder, Illya picked it up ready to take his leave. “And what should I tell Mr. Solo?”

“You may tell him as much or as little as you feel necessary.” Mr. Waverly paused then pointed the stem of his pipe at the Russian agent. “I should point out that I am not unaware of the change in your and Mr. Solo’s relationship, nor the effect this marriage has had on it.”

The shocked look on the young man’s face, quickly suppressed, brought a twinkle to the elder man’s eyes. “I will not have my top team of agents manipulated.”

Illya left the room in a daze. He found Napoleon still waiting for him outside the door.

“Illya, what happened?” Napoleon asked with concern. 

Illya shook his head, not wanting to talk about it in the hallway. Once they were in Napoleon’s office, however, he couldn’t help but blurt out. “Mr. Waverly knows.”

“Knows what?”

“About us, you idiot,” Illya hissed. “He knows about us.”

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just call me?”

“I’m sorry,” Illya said not sounding sorry at all. “But, sometimes you can be such a wuss.”

“Such a what?” Napoleon’s eyes widened. “Where did you learn a word like that?”

“Television,” Illya said impatiently. “The fact remains, Napoleon, that Mr. Waverly knows all about…how we had been spending our spare time.” Had, past tense. As much as Illya enjoyed those times, he could not bring himself to initiate anything once he had learned of that accursed marriage.

“Oh boy,” Napoleon said apprehensively as he sank into his chair. Pulling himself together he asked, “What does he plan to do?”

“I’m not sure. He’s sending me to London tonight.” Illya, his fit of pique over, passed the folder he’d carried to his partner. “I’m not really sure what he expects to happen either, but it should prove interesting.” He turned to leave. “I had best be leaving if I plan to be in London before you.”

Napoleon placed a hand on the Russian agent’s arm holding him back. “Illya…take care.”

“Don’t I always?” he responded with a small smile and was off without looking back.

 

 

Oh to be in England now that Illya is here.

Illya exited the plane, his eyes searching for his contact. Spotting Daniel Wilde wasn’t difficult. Wilde, carrying a bouquet of flowers, appeared to be searching for someone, his gaze followed female after female as they left the plane. Illya walked toward him, catching up with the dark-haired American as he turned, his eyes trailing a particularly stunning blonde. “Excuse me,” Illya said, tapping a shoulder.

“Yes,” Wilde said absently, his mind and eyes still tracking the attractive blonde.

“Illya Kuryakin. I believe you are expecting me?”

Wilde whipped around abruptly, his eyes wide and mouth opened. “You’re…you’re not…you can’t be…Illya?” Wilde stammered as he limply shook the Russian’s hand.

“I was told you were expecting me,” Illya stated, puzzled by the American’s reaction.

Thrusting the bouquet into the hands of a passing elderly woman, Wilde explained, “Ummm, yes. But I was expecting.” Wilde’s hands motioned the shape of a female figure.

“Why would you think that?”

“Well…from what Templar said…I just assumed.” Wilde’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“Simon?” What did Templar have to do with this? Then understanding dawned. “Sorry. But I am not,” Illya said firmly.

“Yes. I can see that.” Wilde’s eyes traveled up and down the small compact body. The man in front of him was certainly blond, and he did have incredibly blue eyes. “You certainly are not.”

Illya shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Wilde was looking at him as if he were from outer space or a delicious piece of meat. Illya couldn’t decide which.

Wilde took Illya by the arm. “Let’s go to my car and I’ll explain.”

Illya protested, “My luggage…?”

“Ah yes. Well, we’ll pick that up too,” Wilde said as he hustled the Russian along while he briefed him on the plan.

 

Once at the estate, Wilde showed Illya the room where Napoleon and his wife were slated to stay. He watched as the Russian expertly set up several listening devices. The Russian barely uttered two words the entire time, mostly sticking to yes, no, and thank you when Danny offered to help. “Is there any special reason why Sinclair wants us to bug this room?” Illya asked as he finished.

“We’re kinda hoping she’ll let something slip that we can use,” Daniel said as he showed the Russian to the servants’ quarters, where he was to set up the rest of the equipment. “Sooo… you and Solo are…?”

Illya put the heavy suitcase on the bed and started unloading the equipment. He supposed he should have expected this. Wilde had obviously not had any idea…he set that thought aside. He went over to sit down in front of the equipment. Glancing up from where he was configuring the frequencies, he noted that the American was still there. “Was there something you wanted?” he asked politely.

Wilde fidgeted for a few seconds. “No…yes…I was just wondering. What’s it like…to... ah... you know…?”

Illya closed his eyes and counted to ten. Were all American’s this way? Deliberately removing his gun from its holster and with great casualness laid it down on the table. “Mr. Wilde, I am capable of killing a man in one of a hundred different ways,” he said with deceptive softness, before turning cold blue eyes on the man. “Would you care for a demonstration?”

“Ah, no…no. I’ll just leave you…to…whatever.” 

Illya sighed as the door softly closed. Furthermore, he could not understand why Sinclair could not have put Napoleon in a room with twin beds in it or, better yet, given the couple separate quarters.

 

Daniel entered the study where Brett was going over the information Judge Fulton had sent.

“Have you got her settled?” Brett asked absently without looking up.

“Ahuh, there’s only one teeny problem,” Daniel said as he plopped down in a comfortable chair and stretched his legs onto the coffee table. When Sinclair looked up, he elaborated, “It turns out she’s a he.”

“Ahh,” Brett said softly, this put a new light on things.

“He’s cute and all, but hardly my type,” Daniel said, earning a chuckle from the English Lord. “Does this change anything?” Wilde wanted to know.

“No. Of course not,” Brett assured him. “In fact it just makes this more interesting.”

 

“Oh…Napoleon!” Claire, her high contralto voice gushed as they exited the private jet, grating on Napoleon's ears. “I cawn’t get over Lord Sinclair sending a private jet to get us to England. You never even told me you knew an English Lord, Dawlink,” she chastised him as she clung tightly to his arm, pressing her firm voluptuous body against his.

“Well… it’s been awhile since I’ve seen Brett,” Napoleon unobtrusively pulled away. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the headache he’d developed from listening to Claire as she raved during the entire trip. Letting her think Lord Sinclair had sent the jet had seemed easier then saying his boss had authorized it. Convincing her to come on this trip had been easy. Perhaps too easy? Before he and Illya had developed a relationship, he might have found her attractive he had to admit, but the attraction would never have been serious. Since becoming Illya’s lover, he couldn’t imagine finding her attractive at all. He was thankful she was not a blue-eyed blonde, or he might really have fallen under her spell. Spell. He narrowed his eyes. Yes,…he could definitely picture her with a pointed hat on her dark hair and a broomstick.

“Napoleon!” An English accented voice enthusiastically called out. Suddenly Napoleon’s arm was being heartily shaken as he was greeted like a long lost brother. “It’s so good of you to come, old man. You’re looking wonderful and this must be your charming wife…Claire isn’t it?” the man who resembled Simon Templar cast an appreciative look to the woman at Napoleon’s side. What he saw was a tall, willowy brunette with large green eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Templar had been wrong, until he noticed the pinched look around Solo’s eyes. The eyes showed the look of a man at the end of his tether and trying hard not to show it.

“Yes, yes it is. Brett, you’re looking great.” Napoleon flashed a warm smile as he faked his enthusiasm. “It has been a long time.”

“Yes, much too long.” Sinclair paused, turning to Claire. “I’ve invited a few of our old friends over. They are all looking forward to meeting you, my dear.”

Claire blushed. “Thank you, Lord Sinclair. I cawn’t tell you how much of an honor it is to be here.”

“None of this Lord Sinclair business…call me Brett please.” Sinclair gave her a dazzling smile as he took her arm, leading her away. “I have a car waiting. Let’s just see to your luggage shall we?” 

Napoleon followed along as Brett Sinclair chatted away. Soon the three of them were ensconced in the back of a late model Bentley. He listened attentively as the British Lord fabricated story after story of how they’d met and their adventures together. He wondered whom these friends were they were going to meet. His thoughts kept going to Illya, wondering what he was up to.

Dusk was falling as they pulled up to the front door of the impressive manor. Sinclair had stopped talking, letting Claire take in the elaborate grounds. Exiting the Bentley, Sinclair reached back to help Claire out as the front door was flung open by what appeared to be a typical English butler. “Welcome home, milord,” Danny Wilde intoned formally, moving aside as Sinclair ushered the Solos into the impressive foyer.

“You must be tired, my dear. Daniel, would you mind showing Mrs. Solo to her room?” Sinclair requested, then turned to Claire. “I hope you don’t mind, but there are a few things I need to discuss with your husband.”

“This way please.” Daniel bowed formally and waved Claire toward the staircase. He bent down to pick up the suitcases to lead the way and let out a grunt. God, what has she got in here – bricks? he thought to himself.

Claire paused at the foot of the stairs, turning her sultry green eyes on the Englishman. “Of course not, Lord Sinclair…Brett. You won’t be long will you, my love?” she called to her husband before ascending the stairs following the fake butler. 

Daniel walking stiffly, as he assumed a proper English butler would do, then paused at the door to the room set aside for the Solos. Ushering her in, momentarily breaking role to ogle her derriere, he quickly reverted back as she turned around admiring the room. Walking to the bed, he pointed out a cord hanging from the ceiling. “Should you need anything, madam, just ring.” He bowed deeply before exiting the room.

Wilde hurried up the servants’ stairs to the servants’ quarters, sticking his head in. “How’s everything?” He waited until the blond head nodded before closing the door and heading hurriedly for the study.

Sinclair in the meantime ushered Napoleon into the study, checking to make sure no one, namely Claire, followed before shutting the door.

“Lord Sinclair, it is a pleasure to meet you, but I’m afraid I’m completely in the dark here. Would it be too much trouble for me to ask what is going on?” Solo requested as Sinclair headed toward the bar in the masculinely furnished room.

Sinclair paused in his pouring. “You mean you don’t know?” he asked puzzled.

“Know what?” Solo asked letting his frustration with the situation show. “All I know is that your invitation was extended and it was strongly suggested that I accept. That Illya was to be sent here, with some mighty strange equipment for a weekend stay, mind you. And that this is not an official assignment. I don’t know why and I’m getting pretty damn tired of being kept in the dark.”

Just then, the door opened and Danny Wilde slipped in. “Okay, what have I missed?” he asked enthusiastically while rubbing his hands together. “I’m Danny Wilde.” He extended a hand to Solo, “You must be Napoleon…I’ve heard a lot about you. Well actually I haven’t really heard anything.” He paused to take a breath. “Thank you,” he remarked as Sinclair handed him a drink before continuing his conversation with Napoleon. “That’s quite a dish you’re married to.”

“Danny!” Brett said warningly, handing another drink to a frowning Solo.

“What? I mean, she’s got great knockers and all…” Danny continued as if Brett had not spoken. “… but then Illya’s nothing to sneeze at either.” 

“Daniel!” Brett spoke sharply, finally getting the American’s attention, to shake his head. “You must excuse Daniel,” he said to Solo apologetically. “Danny, are you sure everything is ready?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Daniel said as he drained his glass. “Boy have we got the goods on her… but I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

A tickle of a bell was heard.

“Damn! Her ladyship calls,” Daniel complained philosophically. Setting his empty glass down, he walked to the study door, paused to pull down his waistcoat before leaving to answer the bell. 

“What was that all about?” Solo demanded.

Sinclair countered with a question. “Were you aware that Templar had contacted us about… your problem?” When Solo shook his head no, Brett sighed. “I thought not. Look here, Solo, Templar asked our help…it sounded intriguing, so Danny and I called a friend and the upshot is we may have an answer to your problem. I cannot tell you any more than that. You will just have to trust me.” He wasn’t really surprised by the scowl on Solo’s face. 

Templar! He should have known. What was Templar thinking of involving strangers in his personal problems. “Exactly what has Templar told you?” the look on Sinclair’s face let him know it was quite a lot. “I never expected…forgive me, you must think me rather stupid for letting myself get into this situation,” Napoleon said and looked embarrassingly down into his glass.

“Not at all,” Sinclair responded with a wry smile. “It wasn’t so long ago that I found myself in a similar situation. Anything Danny and I can do to help…” he let the sentence go unfinished. 

 

Later, Napoleon stood in the foyer pondering what he had learned. Number one, Simon Templar was behind the whole thing, and two, Illya was here somewhere. He made it to the top of the stairs when he realized he didn’t know which room was his. 

At the same time Wilde was backing out of a room, bowing low. “Yes, madam. I shall have your tea ready in minutes.” Passing Solo in the hall he muttered, “Sesh, is she always that bossy.”

“Darlink! Is it not vonderful.” Claire waved her hands around enthusiastically, before going back to her unpacking.

Napoleon had to admit it was. He turned his practiced eyes to the antique bed and matching furniture in the large room, spotting the bugs. Illya’s work no doubt, he thought. The next thing he knew, Claire flung herself into his arms and was fingering his tie. “We’ll have a wonderful time here. Don’t you t'ink?” she said seductively.

“Hmmm,” Napoleon murmured as he backed away, releasing himself from her grasp. 

A knock was heard at the door and Wilde entered carrying a huge tray. Setting the tray on a nearby table, Danny threw a worried glance Solo’s way, before nodding to the two of them and leaving.

Napoleon rubbed his forehead, “I seem to be developing a slight headache. I think I’ll take a turn in the garden,” he said a little louder then he needed to.

“Oh, you poor liebling. Vould you like company?” Claire glanced up for just a second from pouring her tea.

“No…no. You enjoy your tea.”

“Dun’t be too long,” Claire said, her mind already on other matters.

***  
Keystone Kops

Wilde hurried into the room that Illya was occupying. “Can I help… ” was all he managed to say before the Russian threw down his earphones, hurriedly leaving the room. “Was it something I said?” he asked himself as he watched the departing agent. He stood there for a few minutes, thinking, before following.

***

Napoleon, having made it to the center of the maze, was pacing, certain his partner had gotten the message. Relief flooded him as a softly Russian accent voice called, “You look positively dashing.” He searched and saw a flash of pale gold glinting in the moonlight. 

“Illya,” Napoleon called softly. The next moment, Illya was next to him, close enough to touch. Pulling Illya close, the smaller frame melding with his, Napoleon moaned into Illya’s ear. “It’s been so long.”

He felt the resulting chuckle against his chest.

“Napoleon, it’s only been a day and a half,” Illya’s low voice held a hint of amusement.

Illya’s body tensed and he pulled back, causing Napoleon to let out a heavy sigh. “You’re not going to let me touch you are you?” Even in the dim light, he could tell his partner was shaking his head no. He didn’t have to see Illya’s face to imagine the look it held. With a resigned nod, Napoleon turned to go back the way he had come. 

Suddenly strong hands had a firm grip on his shirt and he was pushed up against the tree his partner had emerged from behind. His spirits soared as his mouth was plummeted. “I am not a patient man,” Illya’s voice full of passion growled into his ear. Well for that, matter neither was Napoleon. He could feel Illya’s arms tighten around him, as he pulled up the turtleneck shirt to stroke the skin beneath. Napoleon’s other hand was roaming the Russian’s muscular rear, bringing their groins into contact. The feeling was heavenly. Slowly Napoleon maneuvered them until they were lying on the ground, his hands stroking everywhere. 

A heartfelt sigh escaped Illya’s lips, his head thrown back so that Napoleon’s lips could nuzzle his throat. His resolve to distance himself from his partner until this was settled, broken.

 

Inside the house, Claire had gotten tired of waiting for her husband’s return. Dressed in her sexiest negligee, she threw a lace dressing gown over it and left the room to find Napoleon and entice him into her bed. She had worked too hard to get what she wanted. She had special plans for tonight, in nine months time she planned for there to be a little Solo. With that, she would have Napoleon tied to her forever.

Meeting Lord Sinclair as she was descending the staircase she said in way of explanation, “Napoleon vent for a little valk in your gawden. I tawt I might join him.” 

“It’s very dark out there. Why don’t I go find him for you?” the British Lord offered.

“That’s very kind of you…Brett. But I tink I vould rawther do it myself,” Claire smiled slyly.

Brett’s gaze followed her for just a moment. He wasn’t quite sure what made him think it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to find Napoleon just now, but whatever it was had him hurrying into the garden by another route in hope of warning Solo of her intentions. Rushing down a side path, he almost ran into Danny who was standing peering through some bushes. “What are you doing?” Sinclair hissed keeping his voice low.

Danny jumped back guiltily. “Nothin…I’m not doing anything.”

“Claire is out here looking for Napoleon.” 

"Fiddlesticks." Danny’s eyes widen in alarm. “You go cut her off. I’ll warn ‘em.”

Brett nodded and started back the way he came when it hit him what Danny had just said and he turned to ask, “Them?” but Danny was already gone.

Danny having decide to take the shortest route, burst through the bushes. Clearing his throat, he stage whispered, “Hey, guys, sorry to interrupt… but you-know-who is out here looking for you.” The effect was startling. 

Napoleon jumped up pulling his clothing together. “Damn,” he cursed before sending a nod of thanks in Wilde’s direction and rushing off.

Wilde looked down at the remaining agent who was tugging his turtleneck back into place. He held out a helpful hand to pull the self-conscious figure up. He sensed that anything he said now would only make the situation worse but couldn’t help himself. “What’s he got that I haven’t.” 

Illya rolled his eyes, then brought his hand to cover them. “Not you too,” he groaned, completely missing Wilde’s snarky grin. He didn’t, however, miss the chuckle that followed as he started off the way he had come, the American playboy in close pursuit.

 

Napoleon, in the mean time, rounded a corner coming upon Sinclair trying to block a skimpily dressed Claire’s advancement into the garden.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked lightly, not that he really cared.

Sinclair turned around, relief showing on his face. “Not at all. I was just showing Claire…ah…Mrs. Solo the grounds.”

“Rather late for that,” Napoleon said dryly.

“Yes, it is,” Claire agreed as she stepped haughtily around Sinclair. “All the more reason why you, my dear husband, should be vith me and not roaming around in the gawdens.” She reached out taking Napoleon’s arm, subtly urging him toward the house.

Holding back a sigh, Napoleon allowed her to lead him back to the house, while a thoughtful Sinclair followed more leisurely.

 

The return to the house was reminiscent of the Keystone Cops. Illya and Danny almost ran into the other couple twice on the way back, managing to avoid detection by the merest of margins. Sinclair had come up behind them at one point, scaring the beejebbers out of Danny. Brett had place a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Don’t leave him alone.” before pointing out the shortest and fastest route for them to take back to the house.

The door to the servants room burst open as an irate Illya entered, angry at himself for having let his desires get the best of him. He turned back swiftly, his hand going for his gun, as the door shut softly behind him.

Danny, managing to keep his expression neutral, couldn’t help but feel sympathetic about the situation, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had been the sight of the negligee that Mrs. Solo was wearing, and its implications, that alarmed him. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll listen in for you.” 

Illya hesitated as he lowered his gun. Tired wasn’t exactly the word for how he felt, exhausted was. In spite of outward appearances, he had not had a decent night's sleep since Napoleon’s marriage. He nodded reluctantly, tugged off his jacket, slipped off his shoes and climbed onto the bed.

Danny went to the table, where the listening device had been set up and put on the earphones. Something told him that Illya wouldn’t want to be listening to whatever was going on in that bedroom. He spared a glance at the slight blond tossing on the bed, his hand under his pillow, obviously holding his gun. He wondered about Brett’s cryptic warning not to leave the Russian alone. Frowning he considered the fact that though the little guy was slight; he was in no way effeminate. Wilde shivered, the way in which Kuryakin had hinted that he could kill left him without any doubts on the subject. A week ago he hadn’t even known the little guy existed, why then was he, Danny Wilde, feeling so protective of him. It wasn’t as if he had designs on the man. He’d never seen the little blond guy unclothed and had no desire to do so. 

Wilde put his hand to the earphone. The door to the other room had opened. Solo was pleading exhaustion, but his wife was pulling out all the stops. Things were getting hot and heavy. Damn, he knew if it were him, he wouldn’t be able to resist. Wilde sent another glance to the bed, Illya’s breathing was easier and his tossing had stopped. Drumming his fingers on the tabletop, Wilde knew something would have to be done. If things went any further in the other room, he didn’t think that Solo would ever forgive himself. His decision made he pulled off the earphones and silently left the room.

 

A knock came to the door just as Napoleon’s libido was weakening. 

“Yes?” Claire called out irritably, angry at the interruption.

“Pardon me, madam,” the butler’s voice filtered through the door. “Lord Sinclair requires Mr. Solo’s presence on a matter of some urgency.” 

Napoleon slid out from beneath the voluptuous body, grateful for the distraction. His thought processes were a little on the fuzzy side, not to mention he was still aroused from his encounter with Illya in the garden, and he’d almost found release with Claire. Hastily he redressed, Claire hovering behind him. 

“Hurry back, dawlink,” she breathed down his neck.

“Umm,” was all Napoleon said as he opened the door to leave the room. Daniel Wilde in his disguise at the butler was standing outside the door. Napoleon’s arm was taken in a firm grip and he found himself dragged up the servants’ stairway and shoved into another room. He turned back, staring in puzzlement at the door wondering what the hell was going on.

“What are you doing here?” a drowsy voice sounded in shocked surprise from behind Napoleon. He turned back into the room to find Illya, sitting up in a bed, one hand running through his tousled hair, the other holding the gun he had obviously just lowered.

“I’m not sure,” Napoleon said doubtfully. He thought about it for a moment, and then with a wicked grin, pounced on the bed forcing the Russian back down, his mouth searching and finding Illya’s. 

Illya pushed him back. “No! Napoleon!” he hissed.

“Darn it, Illya. I’m going crazy here,” Napoleon responded frustratingly. 

“You and me both,” Illya muttered. “Look here… I refuse to be a home breaker.”

Napoleon stared, trying to figure out what the Russian meant. “You wouldn’t by any chance mean home wrecker would you?” Since when had Illya developed scruples? “Illya, you lie, cheat, and kill for a living, why on earth would you worry about being a home wrecker?”

“I have my standards. What if it were I that was married. Would you…?”

Napoleon took Illya’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together and brought them to his heart. His dark brown eyes holding Illya’s clear blue ones. “In a heartbeat.”

“Napoleon!” Illya growled. “Can you not get it through that thick head of yours that I am no longer interested?”

“No,” Napoleon said solemnly, squeezing the hand he still held. “That kiss in the garden says you’re lying.” his other hand caressed the inside of Illya’s thigh. “This bulge says you’re lying. Don’t let her do this to us. Don’t let her win,” he said as he brought his lips closer to Illya’s and Illya let him. 

Napoleon could feel the tension easing out of Illya’s body, then he was pushed away. The disappointment must have shown in his eyes. Illya’s gaze held him. He watched as Illya’s hands went to the hem of his turtleneck and he pulled it up over his head. Napoleon held his breath as Illya, never taking his eyes off of him, slowly undid his belt buckle. 

Illya was sliding his trousers off, when Napoleon slid off the bed. Slipping his shoes off, Napoleon’s trembling hands began to undo the buttons on his shirt. Not since their first time together in Templar’s cottage, had Napoleon felt so nervous. His trousers soon hit the floor. “Are you sure, Illya?” Napoleon asked, half-afraid of the answer.

Illya shrugged, then his eyes grew mischievous. “I’ve found I have grown accustomed to having you in my bed.”

Napoleon laughed, a dreadful weight lifted off him, and he descended onto the bed covering the slighter man. “Don’t you mean my bed?” he whispered as he nuzzled the side of the Russian’s neck.

“Your bed is currently occupied,” Illya said, gripping Napoleon’s hips pulling him closer, grinding their groins together in the ancient rhythm that always worked best for them. 

“Not for long, I hope.” Napoleon, his senses overwhelmed, was amazed he could carry on a conversation at all. His mouth coveted his partner’s and he claimed it. Their bodies rocking together ever faster, both wanting more but not daring to take the time.

All he could think of was Illya, his Illya. The one who could drive him crazy with just a look. The one who had been denied him ever since this stupid marriage. And if whatever plan Sinclair and Wilde had cooked up didn’t work, he might have to resort to murder. Then he couldn’t think anymore.

 

It was well after midnight and Claire was tired of waiting for Napoleon’s return. If everything was to go as plan, she would have to accomplish her task tonight. Throwing on her robe, she left their room. So intent was she on finding Napoleon that the butler standing near a door at the other end of the hallway managed to escape her notice. Gripping her robe tightly around her, she was startled to find Lord Sinclair, dressed in nightclothes and robe, ascending from below. 

“Lord Sinclair!” she blurted in surprise.

“Up rather late aren’t you,” Sinclair asked in surprise, spotting Danny behind her gesturing wildly. 

“Yes. I tawt you and Napoleon were havink a meeting? When vill you be finished?” 

His puzzled look must have alerted the woman in front of him, because she turned to look behind her. By the time she turned around, however, Danny was once more the prim and proper butler he was portraying.

“I left the coffee you and Mr. Solo requested in your quarters, Milord. Will there be anything else?”

“No, Daniel, thank you.” What was Danny on about? What meeting. Claire was turning toward him now and Danny was once again gesturing wildly. There was nothing to do but play along. “I am sorry, my dear. It has taken much longer than we thought it would. Daniel, why don’t you escort Mrs. Solo back to her room.”

“Yes, Milord.” Danny bowed and moved to the side letting Claire pass him, giving Sinclair a significant look that he could not interpret. 

Oh well, maybe the morning would make things clearer, Brett thought before making his way back to his rooms.

 

Triple Threat

The next morning however did not bring about any answers. Brett was in the act of sitting down when the Solos strolled into the dining room.

Claire’s eyes snapped as she moved toward one of the chairs. “Lord Sinclair, I vould appreciate it if you vould not keep my husband avay so late.”

Napoleon, an extremely satisfied look on his face, shrugged as he went to the buffet to pour himself some coffee before sitting down.

“I’ll try not to,” Brett responded, still ignorant of what was going on. There was a subtext here that he’d completely missed.

Danny entered the room with a tray of food and started serving. “Good morning, madam,” he remarked to Claire as he set her plate before her. “Did you sleep well?” he devilishly asked Solo, while serving him.

The coffee he just sipped spewed from his mouth, choking Napoleon. “Ummm, yes. Quite well, thank you.”

Patting the choking man on the back, Wilde offered a, “Very good, sir.” The doorbell rang as he was serving Brett. “Shall I get that?” he inquired.

“By all means, Daniel,” Brent responded regally.

Danny was soon back, standing straight and tall as a proper butler should. “One of the gentlemen you were expecting has arrived, milord. Shall I show him in?”

“Give us a few minutes, Daniel. Show him into the study for now,” Brett commanded, clearly enjoying himself.

Wilde bowed and shut the dining room door before taking the man into the study across the way. Returning to the dining area he asked Mrs. Solo, “Would you prefer tea or coffee, Madam?”

“Tea, please.”

Wilde had just started to pour when the doorbell rang again. Receiving a nod from Sinclair, Wilde again exited the room.

“Vhat is that all about?” queried Claire.

“Oh… just a few old friends arriving for the day.” Brett smiled apologetically as he sipped his tea.

Wilde returned as if nothing unusual had happened. “Cream or lemon, madam?” The doorbell rang yet again. “Pardon me, madam,” he apologized as he left the room.

After the third time, Wilde closed the door to the study, then ran up the staircase taking the stairs two at a time. Rushing into the room Illya was using, he paused to get his breath back. 

“Come on.” He gestured urgently to the startled agent. “The funs about to start.”

Illya set down his fork and wiped his face with a napkin. Danny had arrived earlier, waking him and leaving a tray with breakfast on the table for him. Puzzled Illya followed the man downstairs, allowing himself to be hidden away in a small alcove, as a small bell tinkled. Danny brought a finger to his lips making shushing noises. He watched as Wilde went to the dining room door and adjusted his waistcoat before entering. “Yes, milord?”

“You may show the gentlemen in now, Daniel.”

Daniel bowed then walked across the foyer to another set of doors. “Lord Sinclair will see you now.” 

Three men followed as Daniel led them to the dining room. Wilde winked at Illya as he stepped back to let the men enter first. A loud gasp sounded from within.

“What is this…who are these men?” Claire’s voice could be heard shrieking.

“Clairice, do you not recognize me?” a loud gruff voice inquired.

“No…no. Is not true. You are dead.” Claire’s voice was frantic.

“I am sorry, my dear,” Brett’s voice sounded sympathetic. “But evidently he’s not.”

“Et lequel de moi, mon amour ? Quand vous avez disparu j'ai été très dérangé,” yet another voice chimed in. *What of me, my love? When you disappeared, I was very disturbed.*

“Você? Que sobre mim?” still yet, another voice asked. *You. What about me?*

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce you to yet another participant in this farce,” Brett said quietly from his seat at the head of the table. He waved his hand toward the American. “Mr. Napoleon Solo.”

The three men turned to stare at the stunned Solo.

“This is preposterous,” Claire raged, rising from her seat. “So vhat if I vas married before. It changes nothing.”

“I beg to differ, my dear,” Brett assured her with a smile. “There is the small matter of never declaring your first husband dead.”

"Making any subsequent marriages invalid," Danny chimed in. "Bet you didn't know I knew those words," he tossed out to Brett.

Claire’s face hardened and she turned to the one man she had desired the most. “You vill not be rid of me so easily. I will tell all,” she said venomously.

Before Solo could respond, Sinclair cleared his throat. Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, Brett withdrew an envelope which he casually tossed across the table. “I think not.”

With shaking hands, the spiteful woman picked up the envelope and tore it open. Her face turned a ghastly white as she read was inside. Trembling, she slowly sat back down.

Sinclair was at her side, a pen in hand. “Sign it.” 

Taking the pen with great reluctance, Claire said bitterly, “You’ve given me no choice.”

“None at all, my dear. None at all,” Sinclair said jovially as he took the signed paper and reinserted into his inside jacket pocket. “She’s all yours, gentlemen.” He smiled brightly at the three men.

A loud shriek was heard as the largest man left the room, Claire slung over his shoulder, kicking and pounding her fist against his back for all she was worth while the other two men, loudly arguing, followed close behind. 

"And don't forget to lose the phony accent," Danny called out after them.

Solo, who had remained silent during the proceedings asked, “Mind telling me what is in that paper she just signed?”

Sinclair contemplated the request. “Just a little insurance. Nothing you need worry about.”

Solo, elated by the turn of events decided not to belabor the point. “Then at least tell me how you managed it.”

Lord Sinclair chuckled. “It wasn’t hard. Once we learned of her past marriages, which according to the Judge were well hidden, it was just a matter of finding them. You can imagine our surprise at finding husband number one still alive and kicking. When they were located, all that was required was a little gentle persuasion.” With that, he led the way following his departing guests. Daniel was already at the front door, waving an enthusiastic goodbye to the departing couple and friends.

Illya came out of his hiding place to find both Danny and Brett, who had clamped a hand on Danny’s shoulder, laughing aloud and a bewildered Napoleon.

“I don’t understand. What exactly just happened?” a dazed Kuryakin asked.

“Well, old man, it appears that your partner’s charming wife is already married,” Brett explained with amusement. “Not once but thrice.”

“Four times,” corrected Wilde, “Only one of which was legal. Which means,” Danny continued, slapping Napoleon in the chest with the back of his hand. “that you are once again solo.”

Brett let out a chuckle. “That’s a good one, Danny. What Danny is trying to say, Napoleon, is that now you are now a free man.” He clasped his hands together in satisfaction. “I say, everyone, why don’t we all go back and finish breakfast?”

“Come on, Napoleon. I’m hungry.” Illya urged his friend and lover toward the dining room.

A broad smile crossed Napoleon’s face. “Aren’t you always?” 

 

Later that day at the airport, Napoleon shook hands with Lord Sinclair and Danny Wilde. 

“I can’t thank the two of you enough,” he said sincerely. Napoleon felt absolutely giddy. Single again. He spared a glance at his partner, hopefully not too single.

“It was our pleasure,” Sinclair replied. “But you really must thank Templar for bringing it to our attention.”

“What he said,” Wilde concurred. “Haven’t had this much fun since... how long ago was it that you ended up married, Brett?”

Illya too shook hands with Sinclair, nodding his thanks. Turning to Danny, and finding his curiosity getting the better of him, he asked. “Just how did you manage it?”

The American millionaire leaned in close to whisper in the Russian’s ear. Backing away, a smug smile on his face, Wilde finished aloud, “It’s what we do best.”

A delighted smile lit Illya’s face, then in exchange, he clasped the man’s hand firmly in his and pulled him close to plant a deep kiss on him. He backed away from the stunned man before a saying with amusement, “You did want to know what it was like.”

A jealous Napoleon pulled the Russian away, steering him toward the waiting plane.

A puzzled Brett looked to his American friend, “What was that all about?”

Danny turned, giving him an intense look and advanced toward him.

“Danny….I don’t like that look in your eye,” Brett said apprehensively, backing away. 

Danny Wilde advanced closer.

“Daniel!!!” Brett exclaimed as he broke and ran, a laughing Wilde in hot pursuit.

Napoleon looked over Illya’s shoulder out the aircraft's window at the antics of the two men. “What do you think will happen?”

“Ummm, I’m not sure,” Illya replied as he leaned back against his lover. “But I am sure whatever does will not be half as wonderful as what will happen with us.”

Twisting the Russian around to face him, Napoleon could only smile. “You know, you could be right. I am just a little jealous…just what was it that Wilde said to you?”

“Oh, nothing really.” Illya waved his hand dismissively, the twinkle in his eye belying the statement. “Only that all that was needed was a…little gentle persuasion.”

 

THE END


End file.
